I
have a friend. He’s been reading my blogs. (I don’t know why but I’m always
surprised that people do that.) Anyway, after my last post, he reached out to
me with a question. The funny thing was, I had a blog idea on my mind at the
time and he had a topic for me to address. Due to the nature of synchronicity,
I surrendered to the moment and decided they were one and the same.
This
one’s for him. And if I don’t hit the mark, my friend, please don’t give up on
me.
~~~
His
name was Clyde. And yes, he came with a Bonnie. That should have been the first
indication of trouble.
Or
a big red flag.
But
I believe when you ask for something in this world, you receive it. My problem
is, I always think I know what the
answer should look like.
There
I go thinking again.
So
when I first heard of Clyde, I had one of those inexplicable hits—that jolt of
intuition that says, “I got a feeling…”
And
I did. That I was his last resort.
He
was rescued. From a sale. One of the first things I shared with his owner was,
“There’s a reason he was there.” A young, sound, cute little pony doesn’t end
up on the chopping block because he’s a joy to handle.
But
his rescuer continued with a piece from the story she had written for him. “I
think he was abused.”
Any
horse whisperer (and I interject that I don’t consider myself one of them) will
tell you there’s no such thing as problem animals, only problem people. Or
something like that. But the problem I faced was, people created a problem animal
and now someone had to un-create it. Or find out if it could be undone.
I
was in the same position. I had created some problems. I was immersed in a
stress puddle of poo like no other and I wanted out. I wanted to be in a place
where I would be viewed as competent because I didn’t feel that way in my relationship,
I felt like I had no right answers to every impossible question that was posed
by anyone in my chosen career, and I felt like everything was a lose-lose
situation that would quickly become a notch on the barrel of shootouts lost. I
felt like an old cowboy who had rode into the 21st century with an
eye patch, a lame horse and a rusty pee-shooter. It felt real. My despair was
tangible.
But
I was at a point where I wanted to contribute my energy to something in this
world other than my chaos. I wanted to act on a stage where drama wasn’t
scripted by me. I needed a diversion, I needed a change. I needed a miracle. What
I didn’t know was, all I really needed was presence of mind.
And
the one place where I totally embrace the present moment is when I’m working
with a horse.
I
asked. I received. I volunteered to work with Clyde.
Instantly,
I didn’t like the protocol. I was to drive to Clyde’s habitat, be part of a
team of handlers, and work under Clyde’s terms, not mine. So I did something I
hadn’t done in a long time: I followed my intuition. I made a counter offer.
“Bring
him to my barn.”
My
barn was familiar to me and I had ponies that would show Clyde a better way. I
had a stall, a very small work area and the tools.
This
is what I do. This is what I live for. And it was the diversion I needed. It
was a way to feel competent.
It
was also scary. When she dropped him off, he barely led, he had never lived in
a stall (because it was uncomfortable to him) and he couldn’t be caught. Since
those are the basic equine skills, it was safe to assume he knew nothing.
Simple
enough. At least I knew where to start.
First,
I shut him in a stall. He pitched a fit. If he was dumb enough to hurt himself
by flailing over a four-foot high solid oak door, I might have sent him home.
There is a certain level of intelligence I require in a pony, even one that’s
three feet high, and you have to draw the line somewhere.
Then
I shut my big pony—my go-to-guy—in an adjoining stall and asked him to keep
Clyde company. He did. Clyde relented. Strike one averted. I moved on.
Next,
he’d have to work for food. In order to earn anything to eat, he’d have to
first take it from my hand. It was immediately evident that he loved food and that
was a great sign. A pony that will do anything for food is easy money. But he
was smart. He stretched his neck to the max so his muzzle was within a smidge
of touching hay, then he retreated and nodded at me. I knew what he was saying.
Put it down.
“Nope,
you have to take it.” I talked out loud. He probably thought he did too.
Instantly
he hated me. He made this obvious. I didn’t care. He may have not understood
that the option for failing to work out his problems with me wouldn’t be a
meadow all his own on a secluded resort. It’d be, literally, the chopping
block.
Eventually
he took the hay, but the first time he did, he grabbed it and spun his butt to
me with such quickness, I jumped back in fear.
Interesting
behavior.
Fortunately,
even at my age, I’m relatively quick, but I couldn’t control the blood coursing
through my neck. I swallowed hard. I know horse whisperers say you can’t be
afraid when working with an animal, but there’s one thing they don’t tell you:
fear will be a factor—surrendering to it is not an option.
I
observed. He had expanded on his message.
Put it down
and get out.
“No
can do, Clydio.”
My
diligence prevailed. He surrendered, indignantly. On to the next step.
I
called his owner with a question. “Have you ever tied him up?”
“No.
Given his behavior I didn’t think he would.”
I
found a stout post and tied him low so if he sat back on the rope, he wouldn’t
snap the post. Surprisingly, he stood like a champ. He’d stand tied and nibble at
the grass through the fence. (Anything for food, remember?) The only thing he
didn’t like was me standing beside him. Or trying to touch him. Especially on
his right side.
I
tied him to another spot where he could see me straight on or only from his
right eye to confirm my suspicion. I was right. I love being right. He was
left-handed. Entirely.
Then I tied his rope to a spot by my feed-room door where he could watch me go in
and out and in and out, repeatedly, from his right. And if he freaked, I let
him freak. But he had a soft nose which means he’d fight being tied but
wouldn’t care for the pain so would stop before he broke free. I offered him
random treats when I passed so he wouldn’t know when he’d get one, but would be
curious enough to find me interesting.
Soon,
I no longer saw his backside as a greeting.
It
became evident he had two assets: he’d do anything for food and he didn’t like
pain. I couldn’t have asked for more.
Next,
I grabbed a long, stout, cotton rope with a chain on the end that I could
cross over his nose for control.
Chain?
Isn’t that abusive?
That’s
what his owner wondered. When she came to pick him up, I ran through his paces
with her. Even as impressed as she was by the change, she said, “Is the chain
necessary?”
“Yes,”
I answered, “because I only engage it when I need it, and how embarrassing to
need it when it’s back in the barn.”
“Noted.”
Throughout
the relationship, I used that chain because I had one concern: If I asked him
to do something he didn’t want to do and he got away from me, he’d have gained
a mile by winning an inch. I needed a way to make my demand the only option. I didn’t
intend to make the request attractive, just inevitable.
As
the days wore on, the more present I was with Clyde, the more present he was
with me. The more I listened, the more he tried. The more I pressed, the more
he relented.
Finally,
the moment came when I pushed him past the circle of comfort he had allowed to
grow. I’ll admit we differed here: I thought the circle was small; he thought
his boundaries were generous.
In
any case, he freaked. And boy did he freak.
He
had already learned all the aids and commands while circling me on the end of
my rope to the left (counterclockwise)—his preferred side. While doing so, he grew attentive,
compliant and relaxed. But when I finally pressed him to give me the same from
his right, he whizzed around on the end of an eight foot lead at a hundred
miles an hour, the taut line gripped safely by my seasoned leather gloves.
I
dug in my heals and held on for dear life.
Normally
a horse will run out of steam and give in—do what you asked which is simply to
downshift into a walk because they’re exhausted. Then you can praise them. Then
they might understand.
Not
Clyde. He didn’t like me visible only from his right eye and he was on full emergency
mode and wasn’t ejecting. So I engaged my chain and yanked.
He
persisted.
I
yanked.
He
persevered.
I
yanked.
He
picked up speed. He wouldn’t consider the option. He wasn’t budging.
In
my experience, this is the turning point you often reach with an animal. He’s
done and he’s sending a clear message: I
will not!
Clyde
was screaming it at the top of his lungs, scrambling around me in terror. Subtlety
wasn’t working so I yanked on my rope with all my might. Then I hauled on it over and over and over. I brought that chain down on the bare bone of his
nose so many times he finally stopped, I believe, only to wince in pain. But I
had broken through. I’d thrown a stick in his thought process. I had demanded
he cease. I insisted he try.
This
is what I call the hard stuff. If I had
put him away without winning, I’d have lost—in the biggest sense. I could start
over, but I’d only encounter this again. Only next time, he’d be more confident.
Physically, I’m capable of only so much and had no intention of dying to make
my point, so I had one chance.
That
chance was now.
He
and I had a stare down; I swallowed and summoned my best Clint Eastwood.
“Walk
up.”
He
glared. He thought I would buy that he had tried to do exactly that and had
been punished. But I wasn’t born yesterday.
“Walk
up, Clyde. Walk up.”
No! He reared,
he backed, he spun.
I
engaged my whip. I knew what I was up against. He’d already won numerous bouts
at his old homes through bad behavior against who knows how many people he’d swindled.
He’d written the rules for what wouldn’t work for him and that list was a lot
longer than the stuff that would. Since he had already deceived everyone everywhere,
this, on a battle scale, was War World III. The problem was, I had to conquer
to continue. Game over wasn’t an
option.
“Walk
up Clyde.”
Whip.
“Walk
up, Clyde.”
Whip.
“Don’t
pretend you don’t know what that means because you did it really well from the
left. Now, walk up.”
He
took off again like he was spooked. I yanked. He stopped and stared.
“Walk
up, Clyde.”
Whip.
“Walk
up.”
Whip.
“Walk up.”
Whip
harder.
I
watched his body jerk when the popper struck his ass. But he was sure I only had
so much fight in me. He was sure he was tougher.
That
wasn’t the first time he had made that mistake.
Now,
honestly, he might have authentically been frightened, panicked or victimized.
He may have actually suffered abuse or been horribly mishandled by those who
misunderstood him in the past. He might have been justified in writing this
story and living what he believed was true, but there is one truth about
creatures who fail to engage. About living and dying the story. About ponies
like Clyde.
~
I
don’t remember her name. Martha, Suzie, Laura… something old school. She, like
me, had voluntarily signed on for a weekend outreach organized by the Option
Institute, a self-help community somewhere in Massachusetts. Or Connecticut—one
of those New England states with a postcard landscape on their website.
I
was familiar with Option, had family who had subscribed to their message, so
the opportunity to explore my unconsciousness with consciousness professionals
intrigued me. Besides, someone else offered to pay. What could I lose?
Or
win?
The
philosophy Option taught was based, as far as I knew, on a book called, Happiness is a Choice. I read it so I
wouldn’t humiliate myself by expressing in some verbose manner, a belief that
would expose my ineptitude. Suffice it to say, my technique was to repress my
inner Irish lass (aka keep my mouth shut).
But
Martha/Suzie/Laura didn’t. Couldn’t. After a full day of listening to an alien
message of choosing happiness barring all circumstances, along with exercises
and counseling and outreach and role playing to help us breach the divide
between embracing the possibility and embodying our fates, M/S/L went on a tirade.
It was a rant of humorous proportions, only because her position was so
practiced that her self-deprecation spewed forth like the rehearsed venom of a
bitter old comic.
She
was ugly, flat-chested and despicable, so she claimed; a physical casualty in a
beautiful world, and this was so true to her that the realism was sold as injustice.
We
all bought it. We empathized. We tried to make her feel better. We did what any
naïve stranger/partner/friend would do when a seemingly worthy person was
feeling down.
We
sympathized.
Not
the leader, not the teacher, not the wise among us. They let us analyze the
poor soul’s position by using the only tool we had: trying to convince her
otherwise. We believed what we were doing was loving and supportive.
“That’s
not true.”
“You’re
beautiful in so many ways.”
“You
shouldn’t think that of yourself.”
“Learn
to look at the positives.”
Now,
there are many things that can be true in this life, but there are only a few
actual truths. And people who see them clearly.
The
person who did, told M/S/L why she did what she did (with a wink): “You’re
getting mileage from it.”
A
pin dropped like a crash. Holy shit
went through my mind. It was a complete paradigm shift for me. It was an
epiphany.
Of
course she was getting mileage from it. Of course it enabled her to earn
friendships by garnering pity instead of leading with strength. Of course it
was a belief that had festered until ugly become her personification of worth. And
of course the complacency she desired was protected by those who would
challenge her because what kind of bastard would call a loser a loser?
But
the facilitator’s jolt of insight pierced that abscess like a lancet.
I
wiped the sweat from my brow. It wasn’t a holy
shit for M/S/L, it was an oh, crap
for me. How many friendships had I built by playing the victim to the
injustices in my mind? How many situations had I manipulated by claiming to be a
patsy? How much time had I spent surrendering to my circumstances instead of my
intentions?
~
Clyde
was getting mileage from his behavior.
He
wasn’t getting off easy.
He
heaved his body into a trot. It was still not a walk. He was still testing.
“Unacceptable,
Clyde.” I yanked gently for a downshift—a cue he knew. “Walk, Clyde, walk.”
He
did, but only for a few steps, then stopped. Celebration ensued. “Good boy,
Clyde,” I said, another phrase he knew. “Good boy!” He took a deep breath. “Now
walk up, bud. Walk up.”
Again
he tried. I needed only a few steps completed in the exact manner I had asked
until I wanted a whoa. He delivered.
We stopped. I patted him on the head. He got a treat. He went back to his
stall. I didn’t touch him for the rest of the day.
That
night when I presented his feed dish and waited for him to eat while I held it,
he took a quick, resentful bite and pushed the pan to the floor. But that time
he didn’t spin his butt toward me when I touched his neck. He might have been
thinking, fuck you, but having him
authentically hate me instead of selling me his scared bullshit was as much a
step in the right direction as those he had taken at the end of my rope.
It
was a turning point. It was an epiphany. It was a moment of enlightenment. I
pushed him through uncertainty and he understood that quitting was not an
option. I had showed him that there’s a better way to be and he agreed.
M/S/L
had said she wanted to feel different about herself but did she want it so
badly that she wanted the truth as the answer?
I
looked at my life. What had happened between that pony and me in that moment was
a miracle. And boy did I need a miracle. I needed to know that miracles still
happened. I needed to know that as bad as I thought my life had become, there
was still the opportunity to hold tight to the end of my rope with gloves made
by design and get through. I had created my victim persona and now I had the
opportunity to dismantle it.
The
past be damned.
It
would require transformation, it would require diligence and it would require a
facet of discomforts that would factor into change. And the biggest factor was
fear.
Oh,
and fear will be a factor—surrendering to it is not an option.
Change
is painful, change is chaotic and change is uncertainty. It’s also exciting.
Clyde was living in discomfort because he was getting mileage from avoiding
something different. He used aggression to set his boundaries, believing no one
would have the balls to approach. And he succeeded for a long time. He
succeeded for so long that the way he felt became his temperament. Then it
became his personality. That’s when change seemed impossible.
I
didn’t want to end up like him. I didn’t want to be holed up with injustices
and abuses. I wanted to end up like something, well, unlike me. I wanted to be
fearless and competent and wise. But I forgot that you need to overcome fears
to be bold, you need distaste for your own incompetence to seek answers, and
you need infinite experience to be wise.
And
the only time you get that chance is now. It’s in the present. If you ask for
the chance to feel different—to feel amazing and alive, don’t reason it away
when it comes along. Don’t say, “Hell, I’m not up for a challenge. That pony is
your problem.”
Clyde
hopped on a trailer to his forever home in North Carolina. Or South—one of
those states with a “Welcome to the Carolinas” postcard. And I’m off on another
adventure.
I
acknowledged this miracle. I acknowledged my part in it. And I acknowledged
that I am one. He was one. You are one.
In
the present moment, I acknowledge that if I set my intention, I can’t lose. I
will be guided. I can be fearful, I can be uncomfortable and I might hit some
hard stuff—really hard stuff. But if
I believe that I can prevail just as easily as I believed I could fail, nothing
can stand in my way.
You
can only witness a miracle when you’re present—when you feel your presence. But
wander off into your own script of drama and you’ll only read about them.
Be
a miracle. Or better yet, just be.
Read The Aliquot Sum, a novel about how people come together and why. With great sex. And bull riders. By me. Available exclusively in eBook for Kindle or any Kindle app and now in paperback at Barnes & Noble or Amazon.
Find out more about me on my website. Or stalk me on Twitter.
Wow, great stuff here!
ReplyDeleteLuckily some gain wisdom with time. It appears your wisdom has made a connection with a 'being' that benefits from your insight!
So the moral of this story: Patience, humility, humanity, and perseverance can create a miracle which is shared and benefited by both Clyde and you!
You rule.
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