"Spirituality and Horses ... and Us"

Howdy Friends, 

Anyone who has ever sat with a horse alone in a barn, walked a trail among natures beauty with a horse, or hugged a horse's neck while crying out tears of sad, happy or worry has felt the spirit of the horse connect to their heart. I was about 10, sitting with the horses one of the first nights on the farm I'd been dumped off on like a stray cat. I didn't have any tears, or hope, or dreams left, but I remember it was the first time in my young life I'd ever felt safe, welcome. I didn't know it then, but it was the first time I'd felt the spirit of the horse.

Kessy and me

It would be nearly half a century later while Reiki Master Maxine was helping me that together we discovered my spirit guides are horses. It was an extraordinary moment, though deep inside perhaps not a total surprise.

I've long said horses and humans have a spiritual connection on a level so different than any other. Of course dogs and cats and many animals have connections that are wonderful, but horses, if we let them, will touch and guide us in ways that connect to our spirit, our soul and our hearts.

As I say in my tribute to horses, "Horses Among Us Thank God," – "When I think of the horse's spirit and how it has selflessly carried the spirit of man through the ages I'm awed at the nobility of them. How they have answered every call with strength, beauty and unquestioning devotion.  No matter the sacrifice. Today, the noble horse is embarking on perhaps its most important calling … The healing of man." It is with that tremendous spirit they will selflessly heal us, make us better beings. It is out there for all to see in the explosion of Equine Assisted Therapy programs and centers throughout the world.

If we listen our horses will teach us about patience, kindness and humbleness. They'll introduce us to beauty, connection and responsibility.

Even as tens of thousands stand enduring the unkind, ignorant hand of man in BLM holding pens, in torture barns of the TWH insanity and as other breeds suffer the heavy hand of man's misguided pursuit of fame, money and who knows what ... They wait patiently to teach us, heal us.

Their spirit is calling to us to understand there are things greater than money, fame and ourselves. Riding my mare Kessy alone through the forest she'll often stop and take a long soulful look into the trees. She's not always looking at anything in particular, I hear her telling me, "Take a moment to enjoy this." And together we do.

"Take a moment to enjoy this." Isn't that a beautiful sentiment? Spirits connect, minds and hearts come together. I see it all the time at Heartland Horse Heroes, and Inner City Slicker events when the magic touches the hearts, and spirits, of the young folks. They may not have totally understood, but they've felt the spirit of the horse.

Is there a spiritual connection between human and horse? You bet there is, and thank God for it.

Gitty Up ~ Dutch Henry

"Horses and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder"

Howdy Friends,

We are all very sensitive to people enduring Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), Veterans, First Responders, Police and of course women and children. But what about horses? Can horses suffer from PTSD? I submit they can and in fact do, all too often do. Sadly this is usually diagnosed as bad or non compliant behavior and a wide variety of "training" routines are administered most of which can only deepen the grip of PTSD in the suffering horse.

Kessy helping me with my PTSD with her love ...

PTSD occurs when a traumatic or sustained stressful event or events occur, causing an over active adrenaline response which creates deep neurological patterns in the brain which can persist for decades after the event or events that triggered the fear. These patterns in the brain are a transformation making the person hyper-sensitive to future stressful or fearful events, real or perceived.

 

Some of our Coffee Clutch and Facebook friends know bits and pieces of my childhood, the unspeakable abuse I endured for over 3 years locked in a room. I can tell you, to this day as

an old geezer in his 6^th  decade of wondering this beautiful world, it takes only a single instances of the wrong kind of fear or stress and I'm 8 years old again, back in that horrid room with the blackened window. Interestingly recent studies at Harvard Medical School in Oregon found that adults who were in foster care for one year between the ages of 14 & 18 were found to have higher rates of PTSD than combat veterans, and the recovery rate significantly lower.

I share the tidbit of my personal struggles to help make the point, the younger the individual, or horse, when the original trigger events happen, the more ingrained the PTSD. The more difficult the personal battle to manage it is. It walks with you as an unwelcomed friend every day. Unexplainable or out of context behavior, feelings and emotions simply occur without the ability to completely manage or control. They are as much a part of PTSD as kisses and hand holding are to love.

In my travels I've seen many horses, young, old and middle aged displaying the symptoms of deeply ingrained PTSD. I know I'm right about this, and it breaks my heart. They may not have all been abused, they may have been weaned too young, trained too hard too young, trained, owned or shown by one, or too many individuals who could not understand them and disciplined instead of trying to connect and understand them. They may have been yanked from friendships, or homes in ways they could never understand.

How can we help horses with PTSD? Our interactions, our intent, our training should follow one simple rule, "Ignore the negative and celebrate the positive." And in everything we do, operate from the horse's perspective ... We want to do our best to never be the trigger that drives them back into that horrid room with the blackened window.

Gitty Up, Dutch Henry

"Grandpop, Lisa and Fall Colors"

Howdy Friends,

We had drifted to the back yard, Grandpop, Lisa and me. Grandpop wasn't up to riding, or walking very far, so the chairs under the big trees just off the porch seemed a good place to rest. The view of the mountains, not so far away, but far enough to paint a glorious scene stretching across the horizon offered a spectacular backdrop for morning coffee. Grandpop and I settled into our chairs, Lisa stomped about kicking leaves, not quite ready to sit and relax. It had been a big breakfast and perhaps her fourth helping of Grandpop's buckwheat flapjacks, smothered in butter and maple syrup, had her running on a full tank.

She bent and picked up a long yellow leaf, held it skyward to peer through. "It makes the sky all yellow," she giggled. Grandpop and I smiled, it was a good thing to watch that short, blonde haired little girl giggle. Something she needed more of. Her stay with Grandpop was coming to an end when evening rolled in, and too soon this little princess would return to a world too many children live in.

We sipped our coffee and allowed Lisa to entertain us with buckets of smiles, grins and out-loud laughs as she dashed here and there from oak to maple, capturing first one leaf and declaring it to be the most marvelous red she'd ever seen, then holding another high while praising its bold pink or yellow. "Even the speckled ones are beautiful!" She sang thrusting a ragged faded yellow and brown leaf on Grandpop's lap. "See how all the colors mix?" She pointed to the torn leaf and peered into his eyes as if insisting he agree. He leaned down, hugged her. I saw the wet in his eyes, felt mine burn.

Lisa wrestled free, as she is wont to do when hugged, fell back to the ground rolling in the leaves and giggling, grabbing great handfuls of color and tossing them high. "They even smell beautiful!"

Suddenly she stopped, sprang to her feet and pointed to the mountain. "See all the colors there? I wish they could always be those colors. Isn't it just beautiful? Why must they ever change?" She ran and dove into Grandpop's lap and hugged him. "I wish this day would never need to change too."

Grandpop brushed her hair from her eyes, kissed her forehead, and methodically studied the torn, battered, faded leaf he still held in his weathered hand. "Well little lady, I reckon the leaves change once a year just to put on this grand show for us. If they were this spectacular every day we might not remember to take notice. We might forget their beautiful show. This way you see we never fail to recognize all the effort they go to just for us. I suppose in life it takes a bunch of what some folks call ordinary to make the very special, extraordinary."

"Well, I like shiny green leaves too." Lisa carefully pressed out a few multicolored leaves on Grandpop's thigh. "I'm keeping these so I can always remember our very special day and when I get sad, they can remind me to be happy."

Gitty Up ~ Dutch Henry 

 This is the Twelfth in my series of Grandpop stories. I began writing about Grandpop, June 27, 2013, with what at the time I imagined what would be a standalone short story, "Perhaps I've Just Lived Too Long." You can read that story (and find links to go on) (HERE)   Folks said they enjoy visiting with Grandpop, so I wrote more. Frankly, I enjoy him too.

A Favorite Scene From "We'll Have The Summer"

Howdy Friends! 

Today I thought I'd share one of my favorite scenes from, "We'll Have The Summer." I hope you enjoy!

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Then, at last, the owl watched from its final perch as they passed beneath, into the clearing. Sam could see the form of a man huddled by a tiny fire in front of the mud-and-log cabin. The man tossed dust into the fire and bright silver sparks shot into the air as deep red flames lit his weathered face. Anaba.

“I have been sitting here thinking of you, my friend. We will smoke by the fire tonight and speak of these things you cannot understand and those that weigh heavy on your heart, until the sun burns the darkness away.”

After removing Bullet’s saddle and bridle, Sam turned him free to pick at the wiry grass.

Then he simply folded his legs and squatted next to the fire, facing the old Navajo. He drew deeply on the pipe handed to him, held the rank smoke long enough to burn his mouth, puckered his lips, and allowed it to drift out. Sam looked across the fire at his dear friend.

He studied the faded shirt that covered shoulders made uneven by the passing of years, and the deeply furrowed skin sagging around Anaba’s still keen eyes. Such a man was Anaba; you needed to study his worn-out body closely to notice the wear of it. The spirit living in those rich black eyes created a cloaking aura that prevented all but the most determined examiner from seeing the toll the years had taken on the mortal Navajo. But even quickest glance could not miss that vibrant spirit.

“I remember the times I would come here to listen to your tall tales and legends. Now, it seems I only come when … Ah hell, Anaba.” He sucked the pipe.

“We must try to understand, my friend. You are passing through a very difficult and important time. It will not be an easy journey, but like all journeys, it too will end.”

Sam dropped the pipe and covered his face with his hands. “Like my daughter’s journey ended? How much must one man bear?”

“That is not for us to know. No one of this world could help your daughter for she came into this world with an imperfect body. But she had a good life. Her memories rest in your heart, and her spirit surrounds you and Mary. Do you not agree it is better for her spirit to have enjoyed the happy life she had with you, than to have had no life at all?”

“She was still a little girl. A sweet, innocent young girl who loved life and who was loved by everyone who ever knew her. Why should she have such a short life?”

“We do not know why some travel this world long and some only a short time. I have outlived all my children. And three wives. I have left two brothers in faraway lands, too far to even bring their bodies home for sacred burial. I do not know why I have been asked to live this long life. I do know it is right and natural to sometimes feel sorrow.”

Sam pulled himself up and walked to the edge of the clearing, staring down the vertical wall to the desert floor some thousand feet below. He yelled Mary’s name, fell to his knees and screamed out over the dessert, “I’m not ready to live without you.” He sat very close to the edge, wrapped his arms around his knees, and wept. Then in a broken, sobbing voice, he told Anaba, “It’s not sorrow I feel—it’s emptiness. Emptiness and anger.”

The old Navajo grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him back from the edge, back to the fire. He sat hunch-shouldered and glared into Sam’s eyes, yet his voice was calm.

“Emptiness and anger are selfish feelings and they do no good. They will make you bitter.”

Sam glared back at him. “I am bitter. Damned bitter.”

Anaba gave him a tender look and handed Sam the pipe. “We will smoke now. We must not speak again until you have a question.”

Gitty Up, Dutch Henry

"Why Writers Write"

Howdy Folks,

We write to tell stories, record our thoughts, plan for things, record history – the earliest known writings were scratches and drawings on cave walls and ceilings. Were they recording their history, telling stories, planning for future adventures? These drawings were often colorful. Today we use words to tell our stories and words can be colorful too.

Long before man learned to draw on walls of caves, and much later create languages in writing there were story tellers, some were called seers, some shaman, some wizards and oracles. Many ancient civilizations had only the story tellers to record their history, beliefs and adventures, these men and women were highly respected, held close by the leaders and rulers, loved and feared by all within the civilization. They told of, and held in their words, the very lifeblood of all these civilizations had become and aspire to become. They were also treasured as entertainment for the stories they could tell inspired great fun and escapades. They could hold their audiences, whether it be chiefs, kings and queens or peasants on the muddy street, spell bound, in their power, while their stories unfolded. Their words were power.

Today, if we choose to write, there exists a great wide and varied need and opportunity to write, from scriptwriters for TV & movies to stories in magazines to ads for commercials and print. All writing can, and should, paint a picture with words, thoughtful, colorful, engaging and exciting. It is both the writer's joy and duty to hold their audience engaged, and slip them into another person's shoes, thoughts and adventure. All the writer needs is to think deep, see it in their mind, and the story will flow.

When we write a story, or read a story it gives us a chance to slip into another person's shoes, their lives, adventures, loves and struggles. We can become someone else; we can travel to far away mountains, cities, lands and times. We can take our readers, and ourselves to places we've been, to record the adventure or we can imagine an adventure so fantastic we can only experience it in our written word, but we can paint it gloriously with our words and thoughts.

That's why writers write. 

Gitty Up, Dutch Henry

"Don't Let It Stop You!"

Howdy Friends!

Each time before I do an interview for a story I worry, sometimes for days, about it. Will I ask the right questions? Will I understand their meanings? How can I possibly write a story that captures their heart, meaning and essence? It often piles boulders of stress so heavy on me I sometimes get belly ache. And even as I begin the interview I continue to fret; am I hearing what they are saying, how can I tell this in an interesting way they will approve, can I capture their message?

I just finished my interview and story for one of the most wonderful horse women whose mission it is to encourage all of us to, "understand the whole horse," Dianne Little. As is my custom I sent my story to her for her approval and she wrote back. "Thank you Dutch.  You have done a wonderful job. I cannot comprehend how you gathered so much insight from my rambling thoughts. Not only are you an advocate for the horse, you are able to put your natural talent to work for that cause." 

I share this because I believe it can be a teachable moment. After the weekend of Inner City Slickers at Heartland Horse Heroes helping the young ladies understand the importance of managing self-doubt, and going for their dreams, and then Monday morning chatting with students at Appomattox Christian Academy about writing and confidence, I thought it might be a good example of how each of us may struggle with our own demons, worry, and self doubt, but if we learn to expect it, wrap our own strength of determination around it and march forward, we can conquer our fears, or at least put them in a box and succeed in our quest.

Will I be just as worried before my next interview, yup, I already am, but it won't stop me. Don't let it stop you.

Gitty Up ~ Dutch