Many of us have experienced exiting from the world of horses for 'the real world' only to find that for true horse people, it isn't the real world at all. "All In" is a story about that experience and the realization that the lessons and emotions horses can teach us are even sweeter than we could have imagined.
by Rhonda Hoskins Arza
A couple of nights ago I was
private messaging with a friend on Facebook, and she mentioned that it was time
for her to step away from riding for a while.
She said that she just couldn’t afford it right now, and that she was
struggling with walking away completely, but she couldn’t see riding once a
week on a school horse after she had had this entire junior career as a
rider. She couldn’t find a way to feel
fulfilled enough just by dabbling here and there. I really understood her
plight as I know how riding becomes as all encompassing as breathing for many
of us, and I fully understood what it was to walk away from such a large part
of her identity. As riders, horses
define us, and we are either ‘all in’, or why bother.
I too had experienced that exact
feeling. I started to ride as a twelve
year old girl, late in life for showing standards. I was fortunate enough to have been blessed
with parents who recognized a spark within me that they had not seen before, so
they encouraged and supported every moment of my junior riding career. I had literally immersed myself so deeply
into the passion of riding and showing that when I emerged and was sent off to
college horseless, I felt that I had to walk away from the sport I loved seemingly
for good. I had no plans to ever sit on
a horse again unless it was at the level that I had left it. I knew that I had to start on top or not do
it at all. As a junior rider under
pressure to succeed, I learned that showing horses was serious business; ‘all
in’ or not at all.
In 1983, after much success as an
equitation rider, I walked away from all of it.
I had worked hard, accomplished my goals, and I felt ready to begin the
rest of my life. My horse was sold, I sold
much of my equipment, but I kept my boots, and I kept my saddle. I just couldn’t bring myself to sell that
saddle. I remember the day that it was
given to me, and how much care I had spent oiling it, taking it from a straw
yellow hue to just the right shade of warm brown. The
saddle had told the whole story of the hours of work, of play, of struggle, of
growing up. It had stories of winning, of losing, of falling off, of getting
back on; Brilliant, frightening, glorious, and defining moments, each woven
deeply within its’ beaten up leather skirts, and it’s now worn out seat. Even the deep marks within the billets told
their own account of the horses who had come and gone as if from a dream.
Seeing the saddle in the basement
sitting on its metal rack growing green with mold
made me feel melancholy and
nostalgic. Over the years I would occasionally find the small flat back bucket
that once hung by my horses’ stall, and take the sponge that had dried to the
bottom which still had remnants of an old glycerin bar within its pores, and I
would thoughtfully clean it, and be reminded of the days when all I could think
about were horses and riding. I would
notice small particles of horse hair within the sponge, and wonder which one of
my horses and ponies it had come from. I
had left behind so much of myself, but I knew that I had things to do and that
horses were not meant to be a part of this time in my life, and it was acceptable. It had to be acceptable. “Someday”, I thought, “The horses will make
their way back into my life.” I had no
idea how, but I knew that they would.
Graduation=Transition
1988 was a transitional year, with
horses far back in my rear view mirror. I was a recent college graduate, eager,
and full of ideas about how a person should live their young adult life. Life in Ann Arbor had been nothing but
exciting. There were so many fascinating
and new things going on every day, and I was the type of person who wanted to
embrace all of them. The horses had
taught me to be committed to doing whatever it was that I was to do. I had learned this lesson with much vigor,
and my college years were no exception. I
was into the 80’s club scene, the social settings, the fashion, and the
lifestyle.
So much so, that when I graduated
in 1988, I was in no way ready to leave a life that I had become so certain
of. The trouble was that you can’t
really make a living hanging out with your friends, dressing in the clothes
your roommate dressed the manikin in your apartment in, or just by having long
nights of philosophical discussions about nothing with meaning that were seemingly
about meaning, or being famous just for looking super cool at local clubs. Though somehow, it felt like everything was
going along perfectly from my vantage point.
It was a quirky time, an egocentric time, a whimsical time. In school I had studied English, Psychology,
Art History, and Philosophy. I was
prepared for nothing and everything, and I set out to do it all, that is until
I actually graduated.
The reality was
that I really had to find a job. I
remember being on vacation with my parents during my last semester at Michigan,
and my father asking me what my plan was after graduation in front of my grandparents. I remember barking a few incredibly disrespectful
words in his direction, and marching up to my hotel room in tears knowing that
he and I both knew I had not an inclination about what I was going to be when I
grew up. I knew that I loved teaching,
but I did not want to spend any more time in academia, so it seemed that teaching
school was not really a great choice for me.
I was as lost as most college
grads are, and unfortunately I simply didn’t have the grades to go on to grad
school like many of my friends were doing.
I was torn between being proud to be graduating from such a prestigious
school, and wishing I had a whole lot more time there. There was no way to put off the real world
even a semester longer. Somehow though, I
figured out a way to hold back my life a little. I figured out how to postpone my destiny, and
I found a way to stay in Ann Arbor for a little while longer.
My gift for all
things social had served me well in the interviewing process, and I was one of
seven people chosen out of hundreds of applicants to be a department manager at
a Hudson’s store at the Briarwood Mall in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I thought it was just the thing for me. I could continue my life in Ann Arbor acting
like a college kid, but I was working a real job, making real adult money! “Brilliant”, I thought. I had bucked the system completely. But what I hadn’t realized was that I had put
myself smack in the middle of someone else’s perfect life. I hadn’t taken into account that when you go
against your fate nothing could feel further from ideal; Although, I was
perplexed when I noticed that the people that I was working with and for, all
looked happy, content, and even inspired by this job. I really tried to make the best of it, but what
I hadn’t considered was that by holding myself back from my true life’s work, I
had actually made a miserable daily reality for myself. So when my best friend called from Chicago
exclaiming that the river had been dyed green just for me, I literally packed
my bags, the money I had left after spending most of the money I had earned on
Anne Klein II suits, and I moved to beautiful
Chicago with no job, and an uncertain future. I knew though, with complete certainty that I
could remove retail management off of my list of passions. So I began
the search for the next right thing. I
moved to the city with the green river, which represented all of the hope of a girl
from Ann Arbor who was brave, scared, and ready for the next big opportunity to
present itself to her.
Perfume
and Carriages
During my first
month in Chicago I sent my resume out to advertising agencies, human resource
firms, and other corporate entities I thought would be suitable. I loved the idea of working in the loop, and
maybe even becoming a corporate super star.
I had lofty goals, and great ideas about what my life should look
like. I began to go on a few interviews,
and I was doing quite well, but I hadn’t found the right fit. I had to make money, so I started taking jobs
that would pay the bills. One of my
first jobs was as a fragrance model for Ralph Lauren. You know the one; the girls who spray you
with perfume at the department store as you walk past them. That was me; college graduate turned
fragrance model. I smelled like Ralph
Lauren’s “Lauren” even after I had taken a few showers. It was awful.
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| Photo by Andrew Ryback Photography |
One day during my lunch hour I
stepped out on Michigan Avenue for some non perfume filled air, and I noticed
the carriage horses standing at their stand.
The drivers looked professional with their top hats, and the horses were
all decked out, some even wore large plumes sticking up from the crown pieces
on their bridles. A friend had mentioned
that I should look into doing something like that while I was job hunting, “For
fun”, he had said. “You like horses.” He
had no idea really what that statement actually meant.
I approached the carriage driver
in my off white linen slacks and an off white silk shirt, complete with a brown
saddle leather belt, and brown saddle colored loafers, all part of the whole
Ralph Lauren uniform, and I asked him how he felt about his job. I stood straight in front of the horse while
he spoke so that I could see the horse’s large kind eyes from within the
blinkers. The sweet horse blew great
chunks of black city snot all over my white outfit as I petted his nose. He was a huge dapple grey Percheron gelding
that must have stood 17 hands high. He
was in beautiful condition, he had a larger than life personality which matched
his crested neck wonderfully, and his coat glistened from the shade and light peeking
from within the movement of the breeze from the swaying trees on the
street. His feet were tremendous, like large upside
down pottery bowls that had been freshly glazed, and he had a perfect shoeing
job.
“Do you like those shoes?” the driver asked
me. “They are made of rubber so the horses won’t slip on the pavement.” The driver seemed to really love this horse,
and he took tremendous pride in his appearance.
He told me that the horse was getting ready to go on vacation at the
farm the owner had west of the city.
Apparently, the horses vacationed at the farm on six week rotations so
that they could have a break from city life.
He told me about how he spends hours grooming him every day before they
go out, and how he gets a bath when they return to the barn. ‘The barn’, I thought, it sounded like such a
special place.
“Oh the barn,” I asked, “Where is
the barn?”
“It’s on Schiller and Orleans.” he
answered, “Not a great neighborhood, so that’s why we carry these.” He said pointing
to the large dressage whip he carried in a whip stand made specifically for
such weaponry aboard his carriage. “You should go and meet with my bosses. They are always looking for new drivers.” He
said, “But you might not want to wear that outfit.” He said laughing, “Sorry,
it looks like he sneezed all over you.” The truth was I hadn’t even noticed. I even
had green slobber on the sleeve of my white silk shirt.
“Would you mind if I give him a
hug?”I asked approaching the horse more closely.
“Sure, no problem.” said the
driver, “Be my guest.” He was still chuckling at the horse dirt that was
accumulating on me. I hugged the horse
and buried my nose into the coat on his neck. I took a deep breath smelling the
show sheen within it. It was a smell that
I had not experienced in so many years, and perhaps I had briefly forgotten the
meaning behind it.
“You must
be a horse person.” He said with a smile, “Not too many girls in white come
around and ask to hug our horses.” As
l looked down at the dozens of black flecks on my clothing I thought about how
great it felt to have that grey film on my hands from petting this horse. How nice it was to have a little perfume from
someone I could relate to on my clothing again.
A Barn in the City
I let not a full day go by before
heading down to the barn on Schiller and Orleans. The Noble Horse Equestrian Center was
surrounded by city sounds and completely fenced in to keep others out. It was dangerously close to the then Cabrini
Green housing projects, a harsh reminder that ‘the haves and the have not’s’
lived within inches of each other. As I walked into the building the air
immediately shifted from city air to the familiar air of the barn from my
childhood. I felt immediately at home
within those walls, and I knew that the horses lived peacefully within them. I
was surely safe from all and any bad neighborhood antics that may or may not be
happening right beyond those gates.
The owner asked me to fill out a
list of my experience. I gave them a
laundry list of riding accomplishments, though I had never driven any sort of
horse drawn carriages. The owner’s wife
was dressed in full seat dressage breeches, and she took a look at my resume at
the urging of her husband.
“Well, it looks like you can
ride.” She said with a heavy accent that seemed to be from a Scandinavian
country. She was tall, thin, beautiful,
and had straight blonde hair that went all the way down her back. “Can you
teach?”She asked, sounding a bit hurried, so I followed her as she walked.
“I don’t know if I can teach.”I
said sounding surprised at the question, “I’ve never done it before.”
“Well”, she said sounding less
patient, “Come by tomorrow, you can ride a horse and teach a lesson. Our hunter jumper instructor just quit so we
need a new one. You might be it.”
“But wait,” I asked trying to keep
up with her, “I still want to drive carriages.”
She stopped and looked at me with
puzzlement. “Well, maybe you can do both then.”
When I went home I dug through the
closet in my apartment and found my boot bags with my old Vogel’s in them. Oddly, I had moved my boots and my old Harry
Hall breeches everywhere with me. I
carefully removed the boot trees, and I found the boot pulls, the
bottle of
baby powder, and the nylon knee highs inside of the boots exactly where I had
last left them all of those years ago.
The boots remained clean and perfectly polished within the soft black faux
fur inside the bags. I painted my now more
shapely body into the old breeches. I
pulled up the socks putting a hole through the toe naturally, and then I
powdered and laboriously pulled on the very tight boots. Later, my roommate learned the fun lesson of
how to remove custom boots made for a much smaller calf, as I instructed her to
turn around and let me place my opposite foot on her butt as she pulled off my
boot from between her legs. It was a
familiar and strange moment for me, as I knew that it marked the beginning of
something new that was coming up from the wonder that was my past.
I showed up at the barn the next
day after an awkward walk through my north side neighborhood in boots and
breeches, an el ride, and another walk through old town. I was instructed to ride a dressage horse
that had done some jumping. He was a
tall light colored palomino horse with blue eyes named “Sinatra”. He was quite pretty, and proportionately
nice. I remember little of the ride but
that he was nice, smooth, and easy going.
I walk, trotted, and cantered, and jumped a half a dozen low jumps with
him, and I was amazed at how easy it felt for me, like I had never even stopped
riding. It felt like I had just ridden
and jumped a course the day before. It
was so easy and exhilarating though I had no idea if she even liked my
riding. When I dismounted she just told
me that my lesson was waiting for me in the arena.
As I stepped into the soft freshly dragged footing
in the indoor arena to teach, I was struck by how familiar it felt under my
feet. There was a woman on a large paint
warm blood walking alone on the rail.
She was kind, and she said that she heard I was trying out teaching
today and that she had been made the guinea pig for my trial. I nervously smiled, and stood up perfectly
straight, walking through the sand as if I was going somewhere as I realized
that I needed to channel my inner riding instructor. I had to draw from memory
the exact image of a correct rider, and now somehow I had to figure out how to
sculpt this person with my words into that exact image.
As I spoke, I found the words came
from my mouth with the kind of ease that I had rarely experienced. I watched each of her movements, and how they
created a response from her horse. I placed myself figuratively riding the
horse along with her, and I empathically instructed her how to redirect her
movements back into their proper place again in order to achieve a more synched
and positive response from him. I felt
immediately like the artist who could mold, and then reform, and then remold
again. It was the most exhilarating feeling,
and I could feel the joy spilling over between myself, the woman I was
teaching, and even the horse looked elated as he outwardly carried himself as
though he was fully understood by both of us.
It was as if the three of us were in fact having the dance of our lives,
and the joy I was experiencing as we all worked together as one was awe-inspiring. As I left the arena still walking on air, the
student stood beaming, and asked when she could have another lesson with
me.
“You can have the job.” The owner
said frankly. And the job was mine.
After that day I never looked into
another corporate job. The clarity that
occurred there was a gift that’s value is insurmountable to me. In fact, I really wish such a day for every
person. I think though, had I not
experienced those years away while I searched for my purpose I would have never
come back to horses in the exact same way.
I think about how right the great teachers of life are when they always
say that where ever you are in your life is exactly where you should be in this
exact moment. The riding, letting it
go, the college experience, the wrong jobs, the bold moves, none of them
mistakes, all a journey leading me to right now as I sit here reflecting on the
astounding flawlessness of it all.
Horses Mimic Real Life
I think about the great and
brilliant teachers that I have had, and how much time they spent teaching me
not only about riding, but about how through our experiences within our sport we
are able to conquer other parts of our lives in so many enormous and powerful
ways, making much of it feel so effortless, because riding keeps us all so
hopeful. And I think about what a gift
it is for me to be able to share the art of riding horses with so many children
and adults throughout my life as a teacher of the greatest life mimicking sport
I have ever known. The lessons of the
horse are so infinite, that one lifetime can only graze the surface. What a gift in my life, horses have been.
What a way to spend so many of my days, and how fortunate I was to have come
back to them in such great and purposeful way.
I did get to drive carriages
during the time that I taught there, and it was marvelous. I even saw a familiar Ann Arbor face of a girl I went to school with on her way
home from a late night working at her corporate job as I drove past on one of
my night drive lakeside tours. She
yelled my name from the street side with a question mark in her voice, “Is that
really YOU?” she called.
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| Photo by Andrew Ryback Photography |
