Overcivilized

“Horses help overcivilized people reconnect with the wisdom and rhythms of the natural world.”   —Linda Kohanov

Pete, my wintertime project horse, tried out his new bridle today.

Before deciding to work as a wrangler at Sanborn, I hadn’t been on a horse in over four years. 

I practically grew up on horseback, riding in a rigorous lesson program since I was eight, owning and caring for horses on our small acreage all throughout high school, then attending my first year of college in Missouri to pursue Equestrian Science.  Unsatisfied by the small, rural town of Fulton, Missouri, I decided I needed a healthy dose of the civilized life, so I moved into the heart of Chicago and changed my major to Nonfiction Writing.  Living on the twenty-eighth story of a downtown apartment building, I cut horses out of my life entirely and took to sitting in cafes for long hours in front of a computer, sipping tea and glancing over the top of my books in an aloof, sophisticated manner.  I’d convinced myself that I loved the city, that I didn’t miss my country-girl upbringing, and that this new lifestyle was making me a better person.

Meanwhile, sitting in the library or any number of my favorite coffee shops, my hands lost their calluses.  There was no dirt beneath my fingernails.  My body became soft; my brain was the only defined muscle.  Then, slowly, without my awareness, it became over-defined.  I found myself unable to fall asleep.  My writing assignments were never good enough for me, even though my stellar 4.0 GPA would seem to prove otherwise.  I maintained the maximum course load, worked part-time, ran a writer’s group, and served as the president of a club I’d started with my roommate.  I worked insanely on my writing, obsessing in front of a computer, researching articles online until I couldn’t see straight.  I didn’t know it at the time, but there was a lack of something in my life I attempted to fill that void by trying harder, doing more, being smarter.  Still feeling empty, I began to turn inward, withdrawing from friends and family.  There were some days I only got out of bed to feed my cat.

In my last year of college, I was diagnosed with a Generalized Anxiety Disorder and suffered severe depression.  My doctor told me that I’d be on medication for the rest of my life.  This news was debilitating; how could I be one of those people?  I’d done everything right: I’d tried my hardest, I’d gone above and beyond most of my peers.

After graduation, I moved back in with my parents, unable to afford my life in the city.  Things did not improve.  I just wanted to be happy, but didn’t know how.  My mom asked me one day why I didn’t go visit the stable I’d taken lessons at as a kid.  I’d been unconsciously avoiding the barns I’d grown up at, for fear of the feeling of loss that gripped me each time I happened upon even so much as a picture of a horse.  The idea was unappealing.  But then she mentioned Sanborn, a western camp she’d learned about through a friend at work.  Apparently there was horseback riding there.  It was near my mom and dad’s new retirement home in Colorado.  We set up a visit for late December.

Meanwhile, I went back to the barn.  I didn’t even ride, just stood outside the stalls, gazing in at horses munching hay.  The sounds and sweet, dusty smell enveloped me.  Suddenly, I felt home.  The void in my heart felt full again, and my future seemed obvious.  I couldn’t get to Sanborn soon enough.

While working with kids and horses as a wrangler at High Trails symbolizes for me a Great Return to a life I’d rejected for something more civilized, it has also taught me much more.  In an increasingly sophisticated world, where over eighteen percent of Americans suffer from anxiety and depression in a given year, horse-human interactions serve as the best kind of medicine.  Apart from nature, there has been an over-intellectualizing of the self, a denial of the value of being present and authentic.  It’s so easy, interacting in society, to put on a mask and function as that false self.  Interacting with horses who don’t buy into the false image forces people—adults and kids alike—to be who they are, fully present, fully in the moment.  Horses inspire an authenticity that prescription medicine can’t replicate.

Getting Lune and Fiona ready for their Gymkhana event, Summer 2009

Photo by Jessie Spehar

The connections I witnessed last summer between campers and horses were profound.  There were some girls who couldn’t wait till the next time they got to ride.  It was not just some young girl fantasy coming true; it was a re-realization of the self, an invitation to exist spontaneously, creatively.  Perhaps they could not articulate it, but those girls felt more alive—more themselves—in the presence of horses.

Looking back, I wasn’t wrong when I assumed I’d become a more complete person by moving into the city and immersing myself in what I perceived to be important.  I needed to witness the darkness of a life where images of busyness, over-achievement and hyper-intellect are so heavily praised, so that I could find a balance and become aware of how fortunate a life with horses truly is.  Now, looking forward to the enhancement of next summer’s riding program (I will be Head Wrangler for the girls camp), I am eager to share this horse-wisdom with the girls.  It is my hope that they, too, can experience and cultivate an awareness of the grounding effect horses have on our species, so that they can embark on their worldly pursuits as authentic, joyful, and whole people.

One happy camper!

If you desire more information about the horse-human dynamic, I urge you to take a look at Linda Kohanov’s nonfiction book, Riding Between the Worlds.  It has been tremendously enlightening for me.