Mirrors

I’m not the only woman of a certain age that has a complicated relationship with mirrors.

I think we have a perception of ourselves, our weight, our hair, our face and its level of sun-damage and laugh lines.

The mirror in our guest room, combined with what can only be described as operating-theater lighting, was just too much reality for me. We changed the lighting fixture, swapped out the wattage and type of bulb, and voila, I can bear to wash my hands and glance up without recoiling in horror. A girl has got to do what a girl has got to do.

A few years ago, I snagged a cheap full length mirror at a big box store for our workout room.

It was intended to be used as a visual check-in for form and straightness, and it did the job. But it is distorted, makes me look slimmer than I am, and I’m here for it. I use it to this day, to make sure I’m not dropping a shoulder or leaning as I swing kettlebells or do bicep curls or squat. The fact that it makes my butt and thighs look a little smaller, well, that’s just a bonus. I endorse a little delusion about my body as I’m working on getting stronger.

Horses are our mirrors too.

“The horse is a mirror to your soul. Sometimes you might not like what you see. Sometimes you will.” (Buck Brannaman)

After a couple of hiatus years, I took a dressage lesson a couple of weeks ago with Atticus. Kathy introduced me to her friend, Lynn, who had evented a Morgan stallion, so this seemed like it could be a fit.

We met at a facility with a beautiful covered arena, footing like heaven laid out on a horizontal plane, the short end entirely mirrored.

People can also be mirrors.

As Atticus and I warmed up, Lynn gave small assessments as we walked around the arena, a compliment or two about my position, some observations about Atticus’ walk as he strolled off a little tension, and strode out with a looser topline.

Was Lynn reflecting a distorted mirror with her kind words? No, but she was reflecting the positive, and like my mirror in the workout room, I appreciated it.

I am aware of my equitation faults, the wonky things I do with my right wrist, my tendency to drop my right hip and shorten my left leg, my tendency to look down and attempt to read the instructions in the horse’s mane. (PS There is nothing written there.)

But Lynn reflected how nicely my leg draped, how solid my position was. She was a little like my workout room mirror, reflecting my natural tendency to keep decent lifting form, even while it keeps the actual size of my thighs our little secret for now. She did mention my tendency to glance down, while lamenting her own, pointed out how my right wrist collapsed when keeping it straight would be more effective. Noted, but not dwelled on. Got it.

She had us head toward the mirror, practice some leg yields in and off the quarter line, encouraging me to watch myself and my position, to watch to see whether Atticus was falling in on a shoulder (yes), whether he was crossing over with his legs, whether he was leading with his shoulders or his haunches. Oh, how I love riding toward that mirror. It allows me to sync what I am feeling with what I am seeing. Oh look, if I use my seat like this, and open the inside rein just the tiniest bit, how I invited Atticus into the rein contact, to step into it, if you will.

A mirror is a tool.

Lynn mentioned some biomechanical tendencies of both Atticus and me, gave me encouragement to insist on a clearer bend, a more enthusiastic response to a request from my leg or an upward transition, reinforced a good decision made in a moment. She gave me ideas for schooling on trail –a forward looking glimpse– beyond what I was seeing that day, during that 45 minutes.

Atticus, thus far, has offered a pretty clear reflection. Few distortions, a good mind and work ethic, a cheerful enthusiastic approach for adventure. He offers up honest and sometimes Shetland Pony-esque enthused reflections of his anxiety, or confusion, or lack of strength or flexibility. Lynn termed his improving softness and adjustability his “squishiness,” an adjective I love and will therefore steal and use with great frequency; consider yourself warned. Atticus looks to his human for answers and comfort, and is not the least bit offended by a lack of tact. It’s easy to look and see our efforts, our gaps, reflected in his performance and attitude. He suffers my corrections, sometimes less than perfect, with the plucky aplomb that I think is a Morgan breed characteristic.

So far, so good.

Dunk has always been more complicated. I suspect he will always be, for me, a mirror with a moving distortion, but he also occasionally reflects my worst moments. When he has anxiety or is reactive, is that a reflection that represents reality? Is what I’m seeing a failure of my own horsemanship? Is it something going on with him that I have not yet figured out, complex puzzle that he is? Is it something I’d see if I just peered a bit closer, had better lighting? Was quicker, or smarter, or more attentive to the subtlest shift? What is me, what is him, what is the subtle dance between us?

Late last week, Elise joined me. She took a lesson with Lynn on Dunk after I’d wrapped up mine on Atticus.

Dunk is a lovely mover, has a lot of buttons and while he’s not as strong or schooled as he’s been in the past, his work ethic under saddle is all business. Lynn pointed this out, made sure he got the opportunity for a break after being asked a difficult question, something he was not quite capable of that day, of getting it “right.” She praised Elise’s instincts, her excellent hands, her solid position. Her enthusiasm for trying a difficult request “just one more time.”

It was lovely to watch.

After his stumble last year, my intention has been to ask Dunk to be a set of training wheels for Atticus, to get us through his first time at an endurance ride (check, successful intro ride at Lizard Run last weekend) and his first LD competition. Then perhaps to retire him.

Elise was elated by her ride, found Lynn, just like me, to be an amazing teacher. Planned to grab her dressage saddle for our next ride.

That lesson made me think my retirement plan for Dunk was a wee bit premature. He’s feeling better and better the fitter he gets. His attitude has been, for Dunk, pretty solidly above average on the ground. Under saddle, exceptional. No signs of stumbling. And as I’ve learned about Dunk, the faster he goes, the better he is.

The reflection was looking better and better, but was it reflecting reality?

Yesterday morning we’d planned a very early morning ride at the Woods. Knowing I’d be loading up the horses pre-dawn, I locked them in their paddock for the night.

I was rushing in the morning. I hadn’t tossed a flake of alfalfa an hour before our planned departure like usual, I’d still been sound asleep. I caught Atticus easily, as always, and loaded him in the trailer, where he ate hay with great contentment. Like a rein aid that was too sharp, or a kick that could have been a squeeze, he blissfully ignored my insensitive approach.

Not so Dunk.

Dunk was anxious, beyond anxious. He paced as I caught Atticus, and brushed him and loaded him in the trailer. He paced, thrumming with anxiety, as I stood by with a halter and a cookie. My Friday high became a Sunday crater of low. I never did catch him. I never actually tried a Plan B. Time was tight, and I was going to be too late. I texted Elise to cancel.

I lamented to Tom that Dunk was going backward in his enthusiasm, and catastrophized, as I do. [You should know that if you call me out of the clear blue and rarely do, I will assume someone is dead. It’s part of the complex joy of being me.]

Maybe I should retire him? Was I asking too much? Was he sore? Did he hate his job?

I unloaded Atticus, turned him out, and watched Dunk gallop away, free, discharging his anxiety with enthusiasm.

I have joked with Elise over the last four years, warned her about not allowing her self-esteem to be tied to Dunk’s attitude. He’s a mercurial boy.

But my mindset was not ready for Dunk yesterday morning. I rushed him. I didn’t set him up to succeed. I did not chuckle, and exhale, as I have in the past, then found a different way to woo him into compliance.

I’m not proud of the reflection I saw.

I said to someone recently “ride the horse you brung.” Do as I say, not as I do. [Sigh.]

I redeemed the day after getting a couple of pep talks — you know who you are and thank you.

I caught Atticus (easily of course), set him up on the Hi-Tie to hang out for some camping practice, gathered Dunk after lots of cookie and brushing “foreplay” (with apologies to those who easily blush) and popped him in the trailer for just a few minutes with the best alfalfa I have. Then I unloaded him, and did a little ground work, lots of “good boys” and syncing with the sensitive side of him that I adore. More cookies and turned out with a long scratch and a kiss on his nose.

Elise and I rescheduled for this morning. A few hours before we were to leave, I tossed some prettier hay up by the barn. I gave the boys a snack, caught Atticus and tied him up, then set my sights on collecting Dunk. I’d set aside the extra time. He started to pace, and rather than think of how I might miss another conditioning ride, I asked him to change direction. A simple thing, really. Okay, you want to move your feet? How about this way? How about that way? It took literally three changes in direction, and he stopped, let me halter him and give him a cookie and off we went.

I rode him today, lots of praise, helping Atticus get his canter on, being a good chaperone. There was much petting, and laughter and a hand offered forward as a thank you. It was a lovely ride, on a horse who teaches me so much.

And I needed to redeem myself.

It was a better reflection of both of us.

“You’re not working on the horse, you’re working on yourself.” (Ray Hunt)

Happy trails, friends.

PS Yes, I’m shopping to install a riding mirror at home. Tom is all in to get it set up for us. I know it will serve us well.