Believe me when I say that I like to be in control.

Those who know me well enough to keep their mouths shut might describe me in less generous terms. I like to be in charge, I like to know what’s next, and I most certainly don’t like surprises.

So when I began riding horses at (ahem) a later age in life, I found myself in a bit of a conundrum. When boosted up onto a large, flighty, sometimes unpredictable animal, my control instincts went into overdrive. I think this is why dressage appeals to female riders my age: there are rules to be followed. Tests. Timelines. Clear measurements of success. It was created by the Germans, for goodness sake.

In fact, I think the first commandment of dressage is, “There shall be no wild galloping of horses.” A cowboy friend (aka a wild galloper of horses) gleefully described us dressage riders as “micromanaging, tight-assed control freaks,” or something along those lines.

And indeed, I wanted to micromanage movement: both mine and my horse’s. I wanted to control the speed and rhythm of the trot. Control the bend. Control his position. Control my position. Gimme control!

Riding felt like having 20 plates spinning in the air, and I couldn’t let one thing get away from me. It was a tense balancing act, and I was constantly on a wire. Needless to say, I also did not have very much fun.

Despite my best efforts to ruin riding for myself, I began to have brief “a-ha moments,” where I would feel like it was easy. There was a lightness and connection with my horse that felt unforced. I felt like I was flying. I loved that feeling and I began riding for it. I realized that I was going to have to get out of my horse’s way and let him move like a horse, adjusting myself to him.

I began to chant in my head: Relax. Breathe. Ride with your heart. Relax. Breathe. Ride with your heart.

There was an immediate change in his body language. He became less stiff and evasive. He was free to move and really began to open up for me. He began to listen to my legs and my body. And there was a change in me: I went from feeling like I was precariously perched on top of a 1200lb animal to feeling like we were one unit with one common movement.

Rather than trying to shove and wedge him through the doors I wanted him to go through (connection, bend, straightness, rhythm), I shifted my focus to opening doors for him. Rather than micromanaging 25 things I wanted of him, I made it easy: we’re just going to move together- forward and with fluidity.

It takes a lot of trust on my part to let go of the control. It requires confidence in him and his training, and a belief in myself and my instinct. It’s something I have to work on continuously. I remind myself that control is an illusion, a wisp. It’s like trying to hold onto a cloud.

Instead of closing down and holding tighter, I must open up: chest, heart, hips, mind. I have to hold everything a little looser.

Now as I ride, I’m quick to realize when I’m being drawn into battles. Instead of taking them all on, I know immediately to take a breath and bring the focus back to relaxing and opening doors: both to my heart and his.

I had a bobble in my confidence this weekend. (This happens often because I have a large, but very fragile ego.) I tried a horse-riding discipline that is super fun, but that I know very little about and that I don’t ever practice. I used a saddle I don’t often use, reining technique that is quite different from my norm, and the setting was wildly different than my quiet dressage arena (it was me + 10 cows in a very small pen). Even my outfit was different: I felt like a fraud in jeans and cowboy boots, instead of riding breeches and tall equestrian boots. I love horses, but I’m no cowgirl!

I was anxious and my horse shut down, unresponsive to my directions. I felt like I was riding a 1200lb bag of wet cement. The louder I asked, the slower he got. I went home in a bit of a panic. I wondered, “How could this have happened?” He’s been so responsive to me the last couple of months. I thought perhaps that I was losing my touch with him again. Maybe I had morphed back into the unconfident rider who just two years ago sat on top of my friend’s ancient horse while she led him around by a rope. He was half asleep with me on his back, but I was scared to death and in tears.

But today, I took my horse back out to that same friend’s house, who is now my dressage trainer. I put my trusty English saddle on him, hopped on, and had an amazing ride. Even though the ride started out a little bumpy, he seemed to be aware of every move I made, and throughout the hour, got softer, more submissive and cooperative. The gentlest touch of my leg sent him shooting off in the proper direction. I never had any doubt, because I knew EXACTLY what I wanted from him. I knew how I wanted his body to feel underneath me. I knew exactly the rhythm of the gait I expected. I knew how to get him to bend that big body of his into my outside rein. He responded and gave me just what I asked for. Minute adjustments gave me big responses; when just yesterday, he didn’t seem to be listening at all. We were far from perfect, but we left better than when we got there, true partners.

As I was driving home, I had a huge A-HA moment.

Horses won’t give you what you want unless you already know what it is you want. To get what you want, you have to visualize it. Feel it. KNOW it in your bones.

The response I was getting from Compass in the cattle pen yesterday was exactly the response I got from him when I first started riding dressage. He was confused as to what I was asking because I was unsure of what I was asking. I don’t know how to cut a cow out of a herd, so how should he? So, being the nice horse that he is, he assumed I was daft and just babysat me. He ignored what I asked and made his own, far superior plan; which was basically keeping us both from getting in a wreck due to my ineptness.

As I’ve grown in my confidence and skill as a dressage rider, I have become more clear about what I want from him. He’s beginning to see me less as his crazy old doddering aunt and more as his mom, his leader. But yesterday, in an unfamiliar situation, I hesitated, and so did he.

As usual, my rides often parallel my life. I often have a fuzzy idea of what I want; some idealistic view of what will make me happy. Because the idea is fuzzy, the result is fuzzy. Whether it’s weight and health, parenting, or relationships, it’s not until I can really picture what I’m after, that I begin to see results.

So, in my riding and in my life, clarity is the key to progress. It’s worth the work of digging deep and thinking long and hard about what I want and how I’m going to get it. And when I know, to move forward with purpose.

This doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying new things or challenging myself to have new adventures. I’ll be back in the cattle pen, probably next week. It’s ok to do things just for fun, even if I’m bad at them. It just means that I won’t judge my results unless I’m riding with a plan and purpose, whether in or out of the saddle.

If I’m not listening closely, I can miss it.

It’s deep and quiet and rumble-y…like a train you hear rolling down the tracks from miles away on a clear night or a Night Train of the Harley Davidson variety starting up a block down the street.

It originates from deep inside his belly and reverberates through his big barrel chest. It seems to bypass his throat entirely and exits through his soft muzzle, the air escaping and making his nostrils bounce almost imperceptibly.

He didn’t always greet me with a nicker. When he first became mine, he was quite stand-offish: like a cat that didn’t want to be pet- always slightly out of my reach. I would hear him whinny for other horses – loud and high-pitched and throaty. But, when I came around, he would glance up uninterestedly and put his head back down to graze.

The mares have always greeted me. It’s more of a loud, bossy screech…sounding an awful lot like, “THERE you are! We’ve been waiting ALL DAY for grain!”

But, over the last year, my horse has addressed me. Said a Namaste-like hello. I’m the only one who gets this greeting – it’s saved for me alone. As I’m walking down towards the pasture and see him standing at the gate, my ears prick, listening. He looks at me and I hear the low, quiet call. It’s only just discernable and at the sound of it, chills run from the top of my scalp and down my back.

I don’t understand this acknowledgement that he has chosen to give me, but I am powerless against it. His voice attends to something in my spirit that can only be soothed by an animal-like innocence and lack of supposition about life. He lives in the current moment; and, in that instant, he recognizes someone whom he trusts. There is no compunction or conscience – only instinct. And the instinct that would compel a prey animal to run at the sight of an approaching predator, as man certainly is, is replaced by a calm greeting that, at the risk of anthropomorphizing, sounds an awful lot like affection.

He comes unbeckoned into my brain sometimes, an old man whom I hardly knew, born in the late 1800s and who lived most of his life on his ranch in southern New Mexico. The name Isidore Davila is spoken with quiet reverence in my family; most of us refer to him as Grandpa Davila. When I think of him, he morphs from the old man I remember, even though I was only three years old, to a young vaquero, out gathering his cattle in the mountains. The snow is swirling around him, his head, and the head of his horse, tucked down against the wind as they walk into a blizzard.

He was of the old cowboy ways, the homesteaders and ranchers who had little to sustain them other than the work they were willing to put into their land. It is said they worked an 8 hour day: eight hours before noon and eight hours after.

I didn’t know my great-grandfather other than as a 79 year old man, and I, a baby. But, I know his spirit. In some unexplainable way, I feel him move in my bones and in the ancient parts of my brain, in my breath. His quiet composure, gentle diligence and determination passed directly into my father, his grandson, who bears his name. My father loves him and still dreams about him, some 40 years after his death; and because I know my father, I know this great-grandfather. The molecules of creation left a little of the same stardust in each of us.

I close my eyes and think of how I define myself with horses: an innate compassion and understanding. An awe and respect and, almost, a hesitation to ride… to ask that much of this animal. A constant questioning of the fairness of ownership of a creature so fundamentally free.

And I think my great grandfather must have felt this, for his blood runs in my veins. His own father was said to have been a taskmaster, a hellion, with regard only for what a horse could do for a man, its value ending there. I picture young Isidore watching this and quietly swearing this would not be his way. In the Spanish tradition, he would not disrespect his father, but neither would he be like him. He turned out to be a good man, solid of values and intentions, well educated, boot strap tough but a gentleman.

His sons and his grandsons worked the land he left for them for decades. In a time where life was modernizing and the way of the old cowboy was fading, they became the stories of legends and campfires. They worked to maintain the winter ranch near Salt Lake, NM and the summer ranch they called The Gallo, the acres of mountain and rock and pastureland where they had worked cattle for generations near Quemado. It was a month long cattle drive twice a year between these two grazing areas, all horseback. This is where my own father had to become a man as he was sent out overnight alone to find cows as a boy of 9 or 10. Here they forged their own brands and built their own homes and raised their sons and daughters, independent, hard working, suspicious of outsiders.

There are dozens of stories of cow thieves and outlaws, of gun-slinging and grazing rights…perhaps my favorite is of my Dad as a toddler being placed atop a colt who had only been broke an hour prior, eyes still wild and dust still settling in the pen, and Dad feeling the twitching of the horse’s muscles as he felt weight on his back for the first time.

And Dad worked as a horseman as long as he could through the 1960s, often pulling one of those broncy colts or a sour mare to work cows all day in the middle of nowhere, teaching the horse on the fly to cross rivers or drag calves.

I was the first generation for which horses were not a major part of my life. I was a snotty teenage girl who was more interested in friends and music than going outside with my dad and getting hot and sweaty working horses…

…until the blood of Grandpa Davila awoke and started moving in me at 40 years of age, waking me up, singing of the beauty and grace of the Great Beast and the power of animals and the land of the West.

And just as I was falling in love with a chestnut quarterhorse gelding, my father sold a small piece of the land Grandpa Davila had given him. My portion of the inheritance was exactly the price of that horse. And so Compass came to be mine (or I, his?). He leads me home every day: to my roots, to the foundation of my very spirit. And sometimes as I’m walking along, happily swaying on his back, the hair rises on my neck and I’m covered in chills. I glance back, sure that I will see the generations of Davila men riding behind me. Men of few words and few emotions, they nod and glance north, and I understand.

Man, he’s a little snorty and fussy today.

Wow, he sure is muscular. Yikes. Especially his running and bucking muscles.

Oh, look at that. He pinned his ears at the saddle.

Speaking of saddles, why did I decide to pursue English riding again? There’s nothing to hold on to if things go wrong…

I often wish I would have started riding when I was a kid, when I had no fear and it didn’t hurt so much to fall. At (ahem) 40+ years, I am acutely aware of the risks of perching on the back of a 1200 pound prey animal, who’s first instinct is, “Run first, ask questions later.” I’ve never been the type to think too long about risk; heck, I hopped on a wobbly paddle board in the middle of an icy cold reservoir for the first time yesterday with my kids. I didn’t give it a second thought; it sounded fun!

But horses…as much as I love them, I have to make myself walk out the door and saddle up. Most days, I have to swallow a lump of fear in my throat and take a deep breath to keep from blacking out before I put my foot in the stirrup. I am aware of the actual, physical pain that can result from falling off a horse.

When I was a kid, I fell off and broke my arm. I spent Easter Sunday in surgery. As an adult, I’ve been bucked off, I’ve fallen off, I’ve had horses spook from right underneath me (picture Wiley Coyote in mid air before he drops off of the cliff, eyes wide open, wondering why the ground disappeared).

In the last two years, I’ve had skin scraped off, toes stepped on, back wrenched in ways that have made me walk like an old woman for a week, bruises on my rear…and it takes a lot longer to get over injury at 42!

So, when I say I get a little frightened when saddling up my big, young horse, who’s made of 100% muscle and 1000% flight instinct, there’s a reason.

So, the obvious question is, WHY? Why do I keep pursuing something that frightens me and has risk of pain? This quote sums it up:

“When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.” -Audre Lord

I have a vision. It keeps me up at night.

It started with seeing my closest friends, who’ve been on horses since before they could talk. Watching them ride is watching the beauty of motion. It’s watching Oneness, a dance. It’s like observing the physical manifestation of grace. There’s no way to tell where these girls end and their horses begin.

I want that.

I don’t want to feel like a bouncing sack of wet cement on top of a horse. I want that precision. I want that glassy polish in the canter, the gentle communication at the walk. I want my horse to want to listen to me, looking for leadership and direction.

But the only way to develop the strength it takes to be a horsewoman is to, well, be a horsewoman. There are no shortcuts. It takes miles in the saddle and time getting to know my horse’s buttons and quirks. It’s hours of mucking and brushing and listening to the language of the Great Beast.

But isn’t this the beauty of pursuing a passion? Some of the happiest, most satisfied people I know are those who discover a little inkling of something they might be good at: painting, volleyball, throwing a barbell around, writing poetry, dancing, training dogs…and they dare to be powerful. They risk injury, risk looking like a fool, risk money in pursuit of their vision.

These are the people I admire. This is who I want to be. And so, even though fear is literally making a buzzing noise in my head, I saddle up.

Fear can paralyze or empower. It’s just a matter of which I choose today. It’s also a matter of deciding if the end result is worth the trouble.

But oh, the reward. Each time I ride, there is a moment where I have wings; where I just have to think and he hears my mind and responds. Those moments light a fire in me that burn brighter than the fear of risk and pain. Those are the moments that keep me coming back for more, that make me feel like the fear doesn’t matter.

The fit was impressive to watch, really. And, since I was watching from between his ears and on his back, it was a little frightening as well. Sitting on 1200lbs of pissed-off muscle that has the ability to run record-breaking speeds and throw your ass a dozen yards across the arena is not exactly where you want to be as a rider.

But there I was…pretending I didn’t notice his pinned ears and swishing tail. I was ignoring the saliva dripping down my cheek from where his head tossing had drenched me.

Was I asking him to perform some impressive feat? No.

Was I whipping him? No.

Was I asking him to work hard? No.

Is he abused? No. In fact, he’s quite spoiled.

I was asking him to focus and cooperate. I was asking him to complete a task that he could manage in his sleep with one hoof tied behind his back. But he had a bad case of the “don’t wannas”.

So, around and around we went. He pushed himself into a complete lather, working ten times harder than he had to and twenty times harder than I was asking of him. I smiled, ignored the antics, tried not to fall off, stood my ground and sang “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” to keep from losing my cool.

The second he gave me some effort and cooperation, we quit. I patted his neck, hopped off, gave him a big hug and a kiss and removed the saddle. He buried his nose into my chest, took a deep breath, then looked at me with eyes that said, “Is that all it took?”

Yes, buddy. That’s all it took. You just had to lean in and trust me.

This horse’s name is Compass. I named him Compass because he is leading me home. He’s my True North. He is me, in four-legged, furry form. He fights the unimportant things and he can be passive aggressive. He’s loving and goofy…when he feels like it…and a complete asshat when he feels like it. He has the ability to be awesome, when he’s not being lazy. This is an embarrassingly familiar personality.

So, while he was stomping his feet like a toddler, I was learning something about myself:

Don’t sweat the small stuff.

Things are easier than you’re making them out to be.

Stubbornness and over thinking makes things harder.

Lean into what’s being asked of you and trust the process.

Be yourself. Even if you know you’re acting ridiculous, commit to being you until a different way appears.

When you finally get it, give someone who loves and understands you a hug. Tomorrow is a new day to try again.

It is breaking through -

New grass in a spring pasture

Working to find cracks

    and holes

In which to reach for sunlight.

At times it hurts;

A painful growth of a love that frightens me.

My bones ache with the discovering of it.

And like a tree,

its roots sink deep

into ancient places in my heart

long brushed aside

for places

   more cosmopolitan.

The roots reach down….

    into my gut

    and into my spirit

And the web through the

nucleus of every cell

    of my mind.

How have you caught me,

     Great Beast?

When I am to have caught you?

What magic have you cast?

What spell have you spun?

Your dark eyes speak of instinct and knowledge -

   maybe loyalty,

but also of fear and curiosity.

I feel my heart surrendering to your breath ,

and the heat of your body,

and the innocence of your existence.

Gold begins to overlay

   the cracks and empty spots-

with every velvety nibble on my shoulder.

You’re full of strength and power

But you willingly place yourself

in my hands, trusting…

Inviting me to trust you in return.

~Deborah Linne