This time last week I was on my way to visit a friend while another friend was preparing to return to Afghanistan.  I’d spent the day before sick with a headache, reading, being inactive in a way that my body had forgotten this busy summer at the barn.  My choice of reading material was dark: The Book Thief and The Bookseller of Kabul, both titles lent to me by friends. So I was thinking about friends and change and the world – mostly depressing thoughts, but the kind of melancholy that will soon pass and bring positive change in its wake.

“What are you thinking about?” my friend asked when I arrived.

I told her about the books I had been reading and how I was sad but getting over it.  I told her it was a useful sort of sadness that would make me better able to talk to the girls at the barn when they came to me with their thoughts.  Those sorts of things.  That I never wanted to give any of my riders false optimism but help them find the strength to work through the hard things in life – the things that inevitably happen: disappointments, defeats, sadness and confusion.  Choices the horses give us daily, along with joy.

I talked about my dearest friend who was packing up to go back to a country where millions of women live the daily life subjectively glimpsed in The Bookseller of Kabul (though there has been much controversy surrounding the writer’s portrayal of her subjects).  The crux of the book is choices, or lack of them.  So I was thinking about my choices, aware of how ridiculous it is to be sad when I can drive a car and travel anywhere I wish, when I am free to choose my relationships, have a business, keep money in the bank to spend as I want.  Things not all women in the world are free to do.  At the heart of my melancholy was a sense of how fortunate I was to have been blessed with the lottery of my birth, to be free to own a business where I’m handed an assortment of brilliant girls, some that will stay for an hour, some that will hang around for years.  I put them on a horse and have the privilege of assisting them with their choices, through their choices.

Choices have always scared me to death.  Horses often scare me to death – they’re big! They do whatever they please! But how amazing it is to work through the hard parts, recognizing the struggle, and emerging on the other side, stronger for the journey. How amazing it is to not give up.

In the US it’s often easy to forget that not every woman has the freedom to make her own choices. So last week, in the midst of my melancholy, I was trying to find the words to explain how I could see joy on the other side of my sadness, but first I had to walk through it, not ignore it; count my numerous blessings.

It must have came out all wrong because my friend became immediately alarmed and feared I was going to force too much negativity and realism on young minds if I continued thinking in this pattern.  I needed to focus more on joy, the friend said, to look for it.  I needed to stop reading sad books and to stop wasting my energy worrying about ugly parts of the world that I could not change.

“Are you trying to be a therapist?” the friend asked.

No.  No, I’m not.  Therapy is outside my jurisdiction, I often tell parents at the barn.  I’m a riding instructor and while I might have a rider sign up who wishes to use horses as a means to build physical strength or relieve stress, I’m very hesitant to attach the word “therapy” to anything we do at the barn, or seek the training and certification that would require us to adopt the label of “therapeutic.” Our traditional program sufficiently houses all riders’ strengths and weaknesses without us having to compartmentalize and sort riders into categories.  One rider might be content walking or being led on a horse for six months, another might wish to competently canter in the same amount of time.  In truth, it doesn’t matter what activity we’re doing with the horses – our goals must be flexible enough to suit the horse’s whim and ability from hour to hour – what matters is the time spent with the horses.  The most cathartic moment could come as we quietly sit on a trunk cleaning tack as we listen to our horse munch hay.

It’s the real moments where the horses allow us to escape the often stifling prison of our minds to see we’re a part of something bigger that makes it all worthwhile.  Our actions directly affect the horse in real time; our choices affect more than ourselves.  We, as riders, are stewards of those choices.  When it’s all said and done, horses open us up like good books.

It’s that microcosm of the greater world, our place in it, that horses tend to bring to the surface which might explain why barns become such hotbeds of drama.  The horses often make us so real and accountable that we can’t hide from our choices or keep up the façade for very long.  If someone rides long enough, they’re eventually going to have a meltdown on a horse – I know, I’ve been there myself and I’ve watched hundreds of riders do it.  When that happens I, your instructor, can either ignore it or ask you to talk about your feelings, hoping all the while that I have the right words to help you find your way back to the horse, who is always your true teacher.

The first few years I taught riding professionally, I ignored the meltdowns; I was too busy running from my own fears.  And then life beat me over the head enough (I’m a slow learner, to steal the words of another friend) to realize it was time to start talking and to cultivate relationships. Unfortunately, we cannot communicate with the horses verbally, other than a few key words and commands, but you can communicate with your riding instructor, whose job it is to help you translate your desires to the horse.

Anyone who has spent time around a barn knows that people love to talk and any human knows that half of what we hear it true.  Most of the time it’s not deliberate mistruth, but we just don’t have the words or the time required to translate our true feelings accurately.  As in the case with my friend, I couldn’t describe to her how my sadness would hopefully translate to me being a better listener or mentor to the girls at the barn.  I didn’t have words and I only have half of them now as I pick through this thesis and my first blog post in a really long time.  A lot has happened since I last wrote.  A lot.  Some has been bad, most has been good, but through it all the horses have stood by as stewards of my journey – and the horses have always been good to me.  They never lie or tell me everything is okay when it’s not. They never tell me they don’t have time to listen.  They never pretend to be fine when they’re really in pain, angry or scared.

As a riding instructor, I try my best to be as good to the horses as they are to me, but time has shown me to give the same consideration to the riders who come to me each day.  If I see that a horse is about to buck someone off, it would be wrong of me to yell: “You’re fine! You’re safe! Just keep doing what you’re doing!”

If someone starts sobbing in the middle of a lesson, which happens more often than one would think (I have also done this), I can either ignore the rider’s reaction and ask them to take their horse back to the barn or ask them, “What’s the matter?”

Whatever sadness or hurt or confusion we bring to the saddle will eventually, thank you horse, come out.  I’m not a therapist or a counselor.  My only training is English literature, art history and riding – but I’m a human and I can listen. Often riders ask my advice on some non-horse related subject and I’ll give an opinion, to the best of my ability.  My opinion might be wrong, it might be right or it might be non-committal.  I give an answer based on the summation of my particular life journey, which is wholly my own.  I’ve made bad choices, and good.  I’ve done inexplicable things based on gut feeling – like walking away from perfectly fine careers to teach riding.

What matters is the dialogue and honesty.  I think that’s why so many young girls find barns to be their safe havens.  I know that’s why I did and still do.

Without a shadow of doubt, I can suggest a horse that will best suit your temperament on any given day, but first I must guess, through what you say and do, where you’re at.  Often I have to read between the lines. The daily reality of a life spent with animals has forced me to not gloss over the tough stuff – there’s a reason why the stereotype of a lifelong horsewoman is gruff and stern and no-nonsense.    I might have to pause our conversation to see to a swollen leg, but the dialogue will continue.

As a writer, I want to foster dreams.  As a rider I want to be honest.  As an instructor I want you to know I have your back and am wholly committed to your safety.  To do all these things I must often say, “No!”or “Not now,” or “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

The Book Thief is a Young Adult novel that takes place in wartime Germany.  It is dark and horrible and sad.  The Bookseller of Kabul is a fictionalized account of one journalist’s experience living with a family in Afghanistan.  It is also dark and horrible and sad.  Both books are required reading in many high school classes.  Would I have a better time reading something fun?  All of us grown up girls in the barn had a great time reading A Discovery of Witches this summer. Did I enjoy reading it? Absolutely.  Did it make me smarter?  Not at all!

When I think back to my first semester at Wofford College (and keep having to go farther back to find it) I remember something amazing that happened once I came to terms with the fact that the five paragraph essay I’d been tortured with in high school English did nothing to prepare me for a well-crafted college paper.  After that, a funny thing happened: I started to get the whole liberal arts thing.  Philosophy, humanities, history, math, science, literature – suddenly everything seemed somehow connected.  College didn’t simply fill my head with facts; it taught me a learning process, how to assimilate and draw parallels.  I had to view myself in the context of a greater world.  Every year about this time we send some riders off to their college experience and while I hate seeing them leave the barn, I cannot wait to hear what they’ll bring back with them when they next stop by for a visit.

Is a lot of what’s happening in the world joyful right now?  Not at all: famine in Somalia, economic crises, everything’s still churning in the Middle East.  For the most part, the things that make the headlines on the world news aren’t going to cause a meltdown in the riding ring.  The stuff closer to home causes that, but we don’t exist in a vacuum.  Rising fuel prices affect feed costs; land loss affects the future of equestrian sports across the planet.  Horses take us to the core of humanity. Often the best riding students are the best world students; able to look at the facts, make choices, and be tough when they have to, trying their best to be kind.  Riders face tough experiences head on and search all their available resources for a solution.

Empathy and perception are perhaps the greatest gift the horses give us – though a wondrous, rhythmical canter is up there on the list.

Sometimes I find riders who are too afraid – so afraid they can no longer utilize their power of choice.  They, like the horses, became paralyzed with fear and unable to act, which sets one up for trouble when they’re on top of a thousand pound beast.  I know what that feels like.  I’ve been there more often than I can count.  As an instructor, I can help you work through this two ways: I can tell you to get over yourself and push through it, like my instructor did when I was growing up.  Or I can invite you to the middle of the ring, remind you to breathe, and ask you to tell me what you’re thinking.  Since I’m not a therapist, I can’t really help that much, but I can listen and relate my own experiences.  I might even change track a bit and tell you about something I’m reading.

Talking makes you breathe. Breathing makes you a better rider. And breathing is something us human and horses share.  Close your eyes and feel the rhythm of their breath underneath you, realize that your horse can feel yours. No matter where the world takes you, horses are universal, moving with us through burdens and through joy: pulling a plow, jumping a jump, prehistory to the present. Whenever I used to visit the horse club in Istanbul, I’d press my nose to a horse’s neck and breathe in the scent of them.  They smell the same wherever you are in the world.

I’m going to end with a stolen passage from The Book Thief.  It would be easy to replace the word “writing”with “riding” at the end – they sound so much the same.

As it turned out, Ilsa Hermann not only gave Liesal Meminger a book that day.  She also gave her a reason to spend time in the basement – her favorite place, first with Papa, then Max.  She gave her a reason to write her own words, to see the words had also brought her to life.

‘Don’t punish yourself,’ she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too.  That was writing.

Here are all of Sarah’s facts. Please direct all questions about monkeys to her:

Sarah Boudreaux (aka T, TT, TDBoo, Dame Sarah) was simply born in the wrong place at the wrong time. Instead of growing up on a turn of the century farm, she grew up in the suburbs ofWashington,DC, circa 1980. A classic pony girl from the start, she had to get the vast majority of her horse wisdom from movies like “The Black Stallion” and “The Man fromSnowyRiver”. It wasn’t until later in life that her world opened up and she was able to fully pursue and embrace her animalistic passions with gusto!

Now she is proud to tell people that she is a dog trainer and riding instructor, two of the coolest jobs in the world. She is so excited to bring her life experiences with illness and singing to the world of horses at Bramblewood, exploring how riding can help people to cope with chronic physical pain.

Her philosophies of learning to ride include “slow and steady” and “safety first”, much to the sorrow of many a teenage girl. In fact, her true obsession is ground work and, if she could, she would convince everyone to spend weeks, months or years working their horses from the ground, bonding and learning their behaviors, before attempting serious work in the saddle. Her current ground work experiment, using techniques she learned as a dog trainer to teach a horse important but sometimes silly tasks, can be followed on her occasionally up-to-date blog, http://thematildaproject.blogspot.com/.

When asked how she feels about Bramblewood Stables, she was overheard to say,

I am so excited to know these people and be a part of what is happening at Bramblewood. I don’t know that anyone other than Kim would allow me come in and do the kind of work that I am doing with Matilda. Of course, my ultimate, subversive plan is to bring in a team of chimpanzees and teach them to ride side-saddle while singing the hokey pokey, but don’t tell Kim that… She has a thing about primates.

 

My name is Lindsey Ryon and I have a deep passion for the strength, courage, and stunning presence of horses. It all began with the comforting smells of the barn while sweeping hay filled floors, listening to a language I was eager to learn. At age five, I was so curious of such a powerful yet inspiring animal. I waited for that moment everyday to run off the school bus, pull my boots on, and go straight to the barn. I have been riding since age five and am currently 22 years old. I am a Communication major, Journalism minor at Coastal Carolina University, on a path to graduate in December of 2011. I am a member of the CCU Equestrian Team that competes within the IHSA. My focus discipline for 13 years was with Tennessee Walking Horses. I rode TWHs for show and pleasure. One of my favorite past times while working with TWHs was riding sidesaddle. I had a custom civil war style sidesaddle dress made to show in and for the many photo shoots I was offered. One of the major accomplishments throughout my riding career was winning the Juvenile division at the 2003 National TWH show in Lexington, Virginia. I was about 14 years old and definitely had the ride of my life. My trainer and I spent many months of nurturing and giving lots of TLC to a TWH mare that was previously abused and sored. After she learned that we were there to help, she was ready to strut her stuff. The experience was not only an achievement, but it was an extraordinary learning adventure. From spending hours at a time sitting on a bucket, running cool water on her legs, to gazing into her eyes begging for trust. When we were both ready to work with each other, it was the best feeling and bond I’ve ever exposed myself to. She will always have a place in my heart because she took me to a place I never thought I would be able to reach. I have had the opportunity to experience a variety of breeds such as Missouri Fox Trotters, Icelandics, Rocky Mountain Horses, Thoroughbreds, Quarter Horses, Irish Sport Horses, and many more. I recently started focusing on a Hunter discipline for the past year and a half, and fell in love with the practice. I’ve studied many issues and traditions relating to horses such as artificial insemination, preventing the act of soring in gaited horses, and the role of equine assisted therapy in treating social, physical, and mental disorders. I recently completed a semester-long thesis project on therapeutic riding. The emphasis of my research was to find what the role of equine assisted therapy was in treating disorders. This summer, I plan to focus on a marketing project at Bramblewood Stables for a therapeutic workshop for adults with stress and social anxiety. The workshop will consist of finding self-encouragement through journalism, as well as working with horses on the ground to provide a perception of confidence and tranquility. I also plan to structure the basics of a therapeutic riding program for Bramblewood Stables. Horses have been a part of my family for many years and I have high hopes to continue the tradition. Being surrounded by such an amazing animal has changed my life from many different aspects, but most importantly the trust and patience that is required has helped the overall perception of my own life.

 

So here’s to all the things that come to the farm, pass through, decide to stay, wander off, or stare at us balefully waiting for a bowl of food and a drink of water.  I used to be unnerved by these visitations; now I’ve learned to welcome them.

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

-Rumi

So we can give everyone a chance to prepare for their dressage test at the end of the month, here are the Riding Center events for March:

Sunday March 13: (1:00 – 3:00)This will be an Unmounted Meeting where we will learn the finer points of turning your horse/tack out for shows and rallies.   The cost for this event is $15 – proceeds going to buy product for your horses and saddles.  Things we learn this day will be in preparation for . . .

Sunday March 27: (event begins at 1:00 but all riders will be assigned ride times) Mounted Meeting: RIDE A DRESSAGE TEST.  Everyone was given a copy of USDF test Intro A last week and this is your chance to ride the test and receive feedback as if you were showing at a sanctioned event.  Dressage whiz, Rachel Lecture – who showed her pony Kandyman to First Level – will be our judge for the day and we’re hoping for at least one adult or non-riding volunteer who would like to scribe for her – must write fast!  Scores will be accumulated just as they would at a show and ribbons will be awarded for 1^st through 6^th place.  The cost of this meeting is $35.   

Please RSVP Kim as soon as you know that you will be attending one or both of these events.  We look forward to seeing everyone there!  Also, it’s time for all the riders who have not joined USPC to get their memberships into Thea.  I can put you in contact with her directly to answer all your membership questions. 

Many thanks to everyone for a great start to 2011!

All camp sessions run from 10am to 1pm,  Tues.through Friday.  Cost per week is $180.  Contact Kim for more information.  Camps are organized for riders of all ages and abilities.

I stopped counting Ayla’s age at twenty-two.  Maybe we should keep her forever at that age.  I know that she was near twenty when I purchased her six years ago, but we’ll just leave it at that.

I worked at several barns as a freelance instructor before I became tired of driving all over the place and condensed my lessons into one location.  I named this new place Bramblewood.  The problem with opening a full-service lesson program was, I only had one school horse, Max (we’ll get to him next!) – and school horses are the heart of a lesson program.  Without them we’d all be running around the arena, jumping obstacles on foot.  Ever tried to switch your own lead?  It’s hard.

Luckily, everything came together just as it should –the way it always does.  School horses are constantly teaching us how to trust, a lesson they repeat me every day I enter the barn.  Before Bramblewood, Wednesday mornings were my sacred time when I traveled up the mountain to ride with Gerald Pack.  I never knew who I’d see from week to week, there were always stories and characters, but one staple was Cam King – and amazing person and consummate, traditional horsewoman who ran the summer riding program at Camp Rockmont in Black Mountain, NC.  Cam would haul her temperamental gelding in for a lesson with Gerald most Wednesdays.  I’ll always remember her patience and generosity – they don’t make many riders like her anymore. 

I started Bramblewood Stables just as fall was leading into wicked winter rains, what was I thinking?  The newly plowed riding ring was a foot deep in mud and I had no school horses.  My problem became Cam’s solution: a place to winter the majority of her camp horses.  I was thrilled at her offer and pulled together two horse trailers and a reluctant group of haulers.  We made our way to Black Mountain where I learned to back a gooseneck up a vertical, one-lane, mountain driveway that consisted entirely of curves.

We arrived home to Bramblewood with a string of seasoned school mounts: Mr. Wallace, Cathy’s Clown (we’ll get to her soon), a mustang, a plump Trakehner mare, and a small roan pony that was well and truly pink.

Roany pony lasted a month before Cam had to trade her out for a large paint pony named Ayla.  I remember fussing about the trade because everyone loved the pink pony, not for her riding ability (she once sneezed so violently that Allyson Field flipped over her head in a lesson), but for her unusual color.  Cam made the delivery herself one grey December day, saving us another trip up the mountain – and there was Ayla, stepping off the trailer with her trademark, blasé expression.  Unaffected.  Nothing daunts Ayla.

I remember thinking that her rear markings made her look like a lemur.  And she was/is so base narrow that she hardly has a chest.  Perfect feet, a mane that defies pulling and a winter coat like a yak.  Ayla is hardy and lovely.  She’s everything a young rider needs to learn how to finally use their leg – if not, she’ll just pull them to the center of the ring.

I tortured Ayla that first winter.  Failing to realize she had braved mountain winters just fine, I bundled her up foothills-style in a blanket that fit her length but did not take into account her height.  The blanket draped past her knees like a dress.  She’d glare at me balefully from the turn-out paddock and pretend she couldn’t walk.  She’s not been blanketed since.

Ayla had already done it all before arriving at Bramblewood.  Cam still took her out hunting when time allowed.  In my lesson program she showed all the characteristics that she still presents today: standing like a statue in the cross ties (she used to kick while groomed, Cam said, until a cowboy tied a rope to her legs – she fell once and never kicked again), refusing to steer if her rider doesn’t use leg to move her forward, napping flat-out in her stall every day at eleven AM.

Very little of Ayla’s routine has changed in the past six years.  She jumps less; I’m protective of her.  Ayla has become the core of our program, the first horse, more often than not, that many young riders have ever sat on.  She’s trustworthy and brave and consistent.  Armed with infinite patience, Ayla is the best of all horses, bearing our mistakes without letting us forget that she is a horse.  Covered in ribbons for a birthday party, she faces the world with a stoic forbearance we should all emulate.  

Beneath it all, the thing that makes Ayla the consummate lesson pony, is her sense of humor.  The way she nickers, lowly, in glee when a rider dismounts; the way she’ll rest her chin on a person’s shoulder, just content to be; the sudden change in direction that parks her rider by a jump standard or the mounting block; her internal clock that knows the moment a half-hour lesson is over. 

Ayla has taught so many people how to walk, trot, canter and jump.  She’s the one that prepares us for all the adventures that come after – and she’s very good at her job.  Just last week, Ayla taught her first therapeutic lesson.

The pensive pony standing in her little copse of trees when she’s turned out in the evening is the reason we all come to horses in the first place.  Good luck to anyone who has the duty of waking her up from her morning nap.

Now, you all share your stories of Ayla.

Leave comments to this post with links to your favorite equestrian sites and let’s start building the Bramblewood library.

http://delicious.com/bramblewoodstables

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In other news, here are some dates to mark for the month of July:

Go check it out.

There are no words to describe the humidity this morning, the weight of it hanging through the air, pressing through the sunlight. I felt it when I walked outside to put the dogs in the car and I decided that today would be an excellent day to take the riders on trail rides. The different between the heat in the riding ring and the temperature by the river can almost be measured by weight, ten degrees difference maybe fifteen, but it feels as if a heavy pressure had been lifted from our bodies. The horses walk differently, the riders talk more as we enter the cool shadows of the woods. After two years of drought, the 2010 spring has drenched us and started to correct the water tables, and the difference is seen in the thick underbrush, all the newly sprouted greenery that needs to be cut back so the horses can make their way through the paths.

I love the lush thickness of the woods, and I think the horses do too, the way their ears droop and their mouths are constantly reaching for grass and branches. Every week the girls at the barn come back with some treasure: tadpoles, flowers, sighting of baby snapping turtles and snakes.

I’d lost the past four months of my life as I set out with a student this morning into the woods behind the barn. I’d missed the blooming of the jasmine on my porch, a sight I’d marked my springs by for many years. I’d missed the bright green of the new leaves and I’d missed the way the daylight shifts into the growing season, slanting light across the landscape. I’d seen it all happen, of course, but I couldn’t find any joy in meet to greet spring properly, to acknowledge it.

Spring had happened to me like a sudden visitor, but this morning, eyeing the brambles growing along the path, I vowed to not miss the blackberries. Like all our trail rides, my fondest memories are of picking blackberries with students, walking beside their horses as they point out the choicest berries for me to pick. The horses like picking blackberries because it gives them long moments to stop with their hooves in the cool grass and take a nap.

But this morning, I walked beside Ayla and led a student into the woods, I was assaulted by memories of other summers and I’d be lying if I said those memories made me happy. I thought of better times and less grief and I remembered every angle, every photograph, I’d taken with my camera: the bend into the summer ring, now overtaken with weeds, the beaver pond where I’d waded for hours one July 4th, the company I’d once had with me on these walks. I remembered when the world at the barn hadn’t been different, changed. My student was quiet this morning and the green heat of the woods lulled us into another sort of silence, the quiet of reflection. The pony walked beside me and her hoof beats plodded in an offset rhythm to my own. We were together, me the pony and the student, but we were separate; each locked into our own worlds.

And then a dragonfly crossed our path.

We were following the sounds of the river and had just crossed over from the clearing, back into the woods. The dragonfly hovered in front of us, floating along with us, just beyond our reach.

“Why are they called dragonflies?” my student asked. She’d hardly said a word since we left the barn, but her tone was different, bolder, when she inquired about the dragonfly. The sound dragged me out of my thoughts.

“I don’t know,” I said, and realized I had to do better with an answer. “Their color, maybe?”

The dragonfly had long left us and we were nearing the bend that would lead us back up the hill to the barn. I continued without thinking, “Did you see how it was iridescent blue? All the dragons that we read about in stories are frightening and strange, but they’re also very beautiful with their colorful scales, if we look closely. Dragons change everything they touched, destroying things, burning things, but they always seem to serve a purpose with their frightening beauty. Without dragons, there wouldn’t be heroes and the stories would go nowhere.”

Everything I said was completely made up at the spur of the moment, but I couldn’t get the image of the dragonfly out of my head as I continued teaching and eventually closed up the barn for the evening.  And I realized that everything I said was true.   I thought about my old barn, how huge swarms of dragonflies used to hover above the ring as I taught. I wondered what the symbol of the dragonfly meant throughout history, how it got its name.

According to the internet (and we all know that Google is the seat of all knowledge), the meaning of the dragonfly changes from culture to culture, but I loved the description I found on this site:

The main symbolisms of the dragonfly are renewal, positive force and the power of life in general. Dragonflies can also be a symbol of the sense of self that comes with maturity. Also, as a creature of the wind, the dragonfly frequently represents change. And as a dragonfly lives a short life, it knows it must live its life to the fullest with the short time it has – which is a lesson for all of us.

There has been so much death and change and grief in my life these past four months – all these meanings speak to me, where I am now, finding comfort in the horses and the woods. Information comes to us just when we need it.

And the dragonfly is often paired with horses in folklore. Legend has it that an Emperor of Japan named the country “Akitsushima” (literally Isle of the Dragonfly) after he was bitten by a horse fly which was in turn eaten by a dragonfly. Lithuanian, Romanian and Dutch folklore create an image of a creature that was once a horse, or one that is known for biting horses – though the dragonfly cannot bite and its use in controlling true pests like mosquitoes is without compare.

Like change itself, the dragonfly has been viewed with hope and mistrust. But as I emerged the woods today with the dragonfly present in my thoughts, something in me shifted and I looked out over the paddocks and the rings and the barn and I knew that Bramblewood is a unique community filled with some of the most creative people I have ever met. We cannot stop change and time and inevitability, but we can certainly change the way we approach these things.

With the dragonfly as our symbol, join me was we expand this barn into a place of learning and safety, not just for the horses, but for all of us. Horses allow us to be present, and the more they demand of us in the now, the more we can see ourselves, our situations, for what they truly are. Horses teach us, through their strength, that we are often more capable than we give ourselves credit for. Sometimes these lessons come to us as we walk beside the horses in the woods, sometimes we learn things over a jump, but more often these lessons come to us slowly – the more we forget about ourselves and listen instead to what the horse needs.

I have not, however, found any significant meaning for all the ticks in the woods. Goodness, they’re out in great number this year.

We have two unique workshops scheduled for July. Both of these four-hour sessions are structured for riders and non-horsey people. The first will be a journaling workshop taught by me where we use the presence of horses to explore the themes of grief and loss. The following will be led by Ramie Nunally, a visual artist and lifelong horsewoman from Tennessee. In this workshop participants will be using both traditional and non-traditional media to construct an amazing piece of visual art chronicling their experience with horses and their time at Bramblewood. I hope to see some of you at these sessions!

Now go enjoy the spring before we all wilt.