Missing connection

I haven’t yet figured out how to connect with my horse. I rode Haddock about ten times before deciding to buy him this past July. A quick entry into a relationship that I plan to last his lifetime. I have been riding him three or four times a week since then. My riding instructor must tell me a dozen times in every lesson to “connect” with my horse—or, conversely, that his breaking out of a gait is due to my lack of connection and therefore not reading of his body movements until it’s too late. I honestly just heard this as “sit more,” “hold the saddle with your knees, not lower legs” and “feel when he gets too extended.” Then two weeks ago we were doing a shoulder-in at the trot, and my coach said, “Be one with your horse,” and coming off of the corner, I actually felt it.  My body moved with him—not trying to correct anything but feeling every one of his steps as if his energy flowed seamlessly with mine. It was glorious for every one of those four strides. Then my seat hit against the saddle, and the magic was over. I want to say that I have been searching for that connection since then, but I haven’t. I think about where my weight is in the saddle, my heels being down, my hand’s movements (one steady, the other searching), the precision of my cues, the roundness of my circles, and the myriad other details that get in the way of feeling. 

Then last week my coach told me to think of my horse’s strides as music.  The four beats of the walk, two of the trot and three of the canter.  Count the steps, hear the rhythm, feel the music, and then fine tune it: slow it down, speed it up, make sure it is consistent.  When that didn’t go very far, he flat out said, “You haven’t figured out how to connect with your horse. You don’t know how to feel him. I can’t tell you what to do or how to do it, you have to feel it.” I knew he was right.

I am more of a thinker than a feeler. And so at our lesson the next day, we focused on connection. Simpler movements and greater awareness. First I had to look outside at the rolling hills—not in front of me. Then I had to drop my stirrups and do everything I would normally do with them.  Then I had to throw down the reins at the canter and ride with my hands on my knees. At that point, there were two other horses and another coach in the arena. When we finished the exercise, my coach asked me how I felt, to which I responded, “I don’t know, I was too worried about cantering into someone!” Still, it did feel different. To be out of control while knowing I wasn’t out of control. To have to trust my horse, trust myself, trust my coach. Riding for me is comfort and liberation and challenge and joy at the same time. Though I started riding when I was six years old, I still get nervous. I over-think. I still have to be reminded to breath. And when I canter, my coach still has to ask me, “Does this feel like a lot of work for you?”…and clearly, it is. But just like my six-year-old self who got back on the horse after falling off (and continued to get back on every one of very many times it happened), I will keep working on this—hopefully with a little less logic and a bit more heart.