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.

Transformation at the Midwerst Yoga Retreat

Published in Yoga Chicago Magazine
January/February 2009

Being a first-time retreater in a depressive funk that I hadn’t been able to shake, I was poised to regret spending a hunk of cash I didn’t really have on a yoga retreat. Why pay extra to practice yoga with 30 strangers, when I already pay to practice every day at a studio at home? I’d signed up for Thomas Fortel’s Midwest yoga retreat because a teacher and friend of mine couldn’t say enough good things about it. When we arrived in the small rural town of Selma, Indiana, I hoped the retreat would prove her right.

The unseasonably warm weather and woodsy smell of the crisp incoming fall welcomed the 30 participants and me. We settled into old eclectic farmhouses separated by gardens, trees and fields throughout the Oakwood Retreat Center. It was nice to walk through gardens with only a light jacket as the sun turned the fields orange and dusk came. But I was barely keeping it together. On Friday evening we gathered in the main building, spreading our yoga mats in a circle. Thomas led a restorative yoga practice with lots of bends and twists. I focused my attention on the poses, noticing Thomas’ manner of instruction: energetic and informative, emphasizing the breath, utilizing the Sanskrit and English translations and clarifying the internal skeletal and muscular structures affected by each pose. Avoiding my emotions, I felt refreshed after the practice, but my depression seeped back in shortly.

Dinner was served, all fresh, local, organic vegetarian food that inspired me to become a bit more creative with my own veggie diet. I kept to myself, smiling and nodding to be polite, skeptically absorbing the initial awkward conversation that strangers make when they know they may very well not see each other again after three days.

We met again after dinner. We sat cross-legged in a large circle; Thomas asked that each of us introduce ourselves and explain what brought us to retreat. I nearly rolled my eyes. Great, I thought, I get to tell everybody I’m Jessie and I have an anxiety disorder with depression, plus no motivation to pursue a career even if I knew what career I wanted to pursue. ’Cause that always makes me feel better.

To my surprise, people weren’t just giving a laundry list of their issues. Almost immediately, I felt closer to the people I had considered strangers. Each had something to say that rang true in every other one of us. One woman, a mother and nurse, mentioned rarely ever doing anything for herself. Another, now healthily pregnant, spoke of the difference she felt since the last retreat when she’d just found out she’d miscarried. Many people had been coming to Thomas’ retreat since it started in 1998, and others, like me, were there for the first time. The connection that grew from that circle extended through the rest of the weekend. I felt softened.

After the circle, a woman approached me and asked about my writing. Why would she care? I became defensive; she’s never going to see me again. I told her my writing wasn’t coming easily, and that having graduated last May, I was still clueless as to what I wanted to do with my life. She looked so concerned, showed such empathy, that I nearly started crying. I tried to smile and excused myself to go on a walk alone.

Through the gardens on that warm night, I walked and thought to myself, I used to be that person. I used to care for strangers. My smiles used to be real instead of a cover for confusing emotions. It used to be genuine. What happened to me? I fell asleep wondering if I’d ever get out of my funk.

At seven in the morning, we practiced pranayama and meditation. I was eager to relax into it, as I’d never had a positive experience in prolonged meditation before. Thomas’ words, guiding us to maintain a “single pointed focus,” proved to be the key. After sitting still for so long, bringing my drifting awareness back to the breath again and again, I promised myself I’d practice meditation every day from then on. I didn’t realize it then, but it was a step in taking control of the direction of my life again.

Breakfast was delicious, followed by an active asana practice. During the postures, I felt a drawing inward of my focus, as well as an expansive awareness of the others in the room. The “Group Field,” as Thomas called it, had a strong, uplifting energy.

Another interaction with the same woman from the night before truly broke through to me. How could someone I’d never met before know what I needed to hear? After a casual mention of a relationship I was struggling with back home, the words she said made me realize that it needed to end. What my friends had been saying for months, what I had been secretly thinking in the back of my mind, was it that obvious? I could no longer hold it in. I didn’t care that there were other people lingering in the room after dinner, I didn’t care that I became red-faced and weak in public. She took me into her arms and I sobbed.

During the next morning’s asana practice, coming out of shoulder stand, I lay on my back in a pain I’d never fully felt before, and tears came again. The need to let go of what no longer served me and the need to take responsibility for my future were painful, but my asana practice helped to seal my realizations.

Now home from my first retreat, I’ve taken the lessons I learned in that short weekend and applied them to my life. The genuine warmth of a group of strangers helped me to see myself for whom I’d become—and for my potential. In creating a safe place for expression, Thomas taught me that the yoga practice extends beyond the mat, and can be a great catalyst for positive change. I ended the destructive relationship. My practice has deepened. I meditate daily on what direction I will pursue, and have taken action. Sometimes, I learned, the best advice can come from a stranger.


The next Midwest yoga retreat with Thomas Fortel will be held on April 17-19 at the Oakwood Retreat Center in Selma, Indiana. Contact Andreas Weinrich, aweinrich@sbcglobal.net or 812.322.6433 for information.

A Riddle!

A riddle: What happens when you graduate from college, have loans to pay back, rent to pay, and bills bills bills?

Answer: You move home.

I've been back to the beginning for two months now and can say with honesty that now, finally, I am okay with it. For awhile ...

But I think the reason for this settled feeling stems from seeing an end to it all. For a month there, I was absolutely cluesless as to what I wanted to do. I needed a change, but felt disoriented and unable to make the first step. My body responded to this uncertainty by having panic attacks pretty regularly. I had one at work, where I was ringing a customer up and I could barely mutter the price of her book without bursting into tears. I was a mess.

Now that I've applied for some promising jobs and can actually visualize a future for myself--independent of my parents--I know it's going to be okay.

But it wasn't always like that.

There were entire days, weeks, where I couldn't stand being in my body. I berated myself continually, thinking that I was a failure for having to move home after trying to make it with a full-time job paying rent in the city. When loans kicked in, I could not. But that didn't make it okay. Moving home for me was much less painful than for most: my supportive parents gave me my own bedroom and even donated the sunroom as a space for me to practice yoga every day. They gave me space and don't pressure me.

Still, the percieved failure and my inability to foresee a future was paralyzing. I couldn't stand the thought of settling in at home. I had a life to live! Great things to accomplish! But finances strangled me.

Depression set in. There's nothing worse than a total lack of motivation. I started to forget what I loved to do. I forgot what made me happy. I forgot how to be happy.

After weeks of this desperation, trying and trying to figure out what was wrong with me, why I couldn't just be okay in stillness, I knew that I had to change my outlook. Telling myself that my living situation was not acceptible had made it unbearable. I had to get my perception back into shape.

I was not going to revert to medication this time. My anxiety and depression from the past had beome manageable for awhile on meds, but then they came back. My doctor's solution was to up my dosage. I hate the idea of medication. I needed to find the root of the problem and irradicate it from there, not cover it up with happy-pills.

I started practicing yoga every day again. My practice had dwindled and stopped over the months post-graduation. I started watching my thought patterns. Each negative self-statement ("I'm boring;" "I'm unmotivated;" "I'm freaking out...") was countered by a positive statement ("I am an engaging, thoughtful and loving person;" "I am passionate;" "I'm experiencing a little anxiety right now, but it will pass..."). The practice of countering negative statements was painfully slow, but slowly it began to work. I kept track of what I was eating, being sure to get enough fruits, vegetables, and protein. This, I assure you, was a full-time job.

So here I am now, about four weeks after the initial desperation, anxiety attacks, and depression. I've just applied for two new jobs that would allow me to supplement my bookstore income. I'm excited again, looking forward to projects and writing again. I just got a small article published on the Reiki Animal Source website. Baby steps.

I think the most important thing for me to remember is to keep my Sanity Practices going. If nothing else, yoga every day. My boundless energy tends to get me into trouble, wearing me down eventually. My Sanity Practices keep me in check.