Student Stories

An Equine Guided Education Experience
By Rebecca Cohen
September 27, 2008

Its funny. Whenever I sit down to write, and think about where to begin, my mind always wanders back to my childhood. I see such a strong connection between all that I am today and all that I have always been. But this story will not be so linear. It will go in loops and circles—as most things do, right?

Yesterday I went to a workshop on Equine Guided Education at Medicine Horse Ranch in Tomales, CA. I wanted to see it in practice. I wanted to feel what this thing is that I have been reading so much about. My intentions in going were to observe and perhaps make some new connections.

Part I
The Land

I drove up the single car road that wound through the golden-brown hills, sky-blue above. Sheep grazed and stood together to the sides of the road. The barn stood tall to the right atop a hill surrounded by horse pasture. I parked my car across from the barn, opened my car door and heard the silence. The sacred silence that was once far more common on this earth. The sun was high and a warm breeze blew over the hills and touched my face. I could hear nothing but the wind and the movement of horses hooves over the dirt. I looked around and saw nothing but hills—light brown dusted with the shadows of clouds and speckled with grazing cattle in the distance. Trees lined some hills and beyond were more hills, sky and mountains.

Part II
The Healer

We entered the paddock with the five horses, four scattered, the lead mare held by Alyssa Aubrey our facilitator and Equine Guided Educator. When asked for volunteers I raised my hand—new for me as I often like to observe before taking any risks. We were asked to choose a horse and to spend 15 minutes with it. Watching, listening, and being observed by the rest of the group. I walked over to a horse fully aware of the eyes of the group: “what if the horse walks away from me? What if I do this wrong? What if I’m imposing on this horse?” All of the usual self-conscious chatter crowded my mind, pulling my awareness up and away from my body like a suction cup. But instead of giving in to the pressure, I listened to my “what ifs” and let them come and go.

As I approached the chestnut mare she turned and looked at me. She was standing separate from the other horses in the paddock, yet alongside a white gelding on the other side of the fence. They had been peacefully standing together and, without realizing it, I was asking to join their shared space. I approached to a few feet away and felt the urge to be on the ground. So I knelt down. Now the voice in my mind warned me that I did not know this horse and that it wasn’t safe to be in that position. But I stayed. My body wanted to be low. My body trusted this mare, as well as my own ability to move if need be.

Then the voice told me I must do something: “why are you just sitting there? There are all these people watching, expecting to see something…do,do,do”. The voice of socialization called for me to make, do, produce, speed up the results. I laughed to myself and sat with the mare. Once in a while extending my hand, though she seemed to take little interest.

I watched her shift her weight on her hooves and wondered if she would walk away. I then remembered that she had turned towards me when I approached. And I knew she would not leave. I listened to what she had to say to me.

I remembered my longing to sit with horses. As I have recently begun working at a dressage barn—my first contact back with horses in about seven years, I have longed to slow down and just be with horses. I was getting that now. My mind traveled back to my childhood—the chestnut mare and foal in “Paradise” (my grandparent’s farm). My grandfather knew how much I wanted to be with horses but was very protective and mostly allowed me to watch the goings on of the farm. Once he gave me a chair and asked me to sit with a mare and foal as the baby needed to get used to people. Today, I have but fleeting images of that experience, but my mother tells me that my grandparents and the barn workers used to laugh at how much time I would spend just sitting and watching.

Perhaps I have few concrete cognitive memories of this childhood experience, but my body and my spirit remembered it clearly as I sat with this chestnut mare. I cried as I longed to return to that level of connectedness with my intuition and instinct. The little girl who could listen to horses, watch them for hours, and be so absorbed as to not even hear the socializing voices of others. I realized I was returning from that place as I was called back to the group. I thanked the mare with some scratches on her neck and walked back to the group—with the what-ifs again crowding my mind.

Part III
Connection

I sat down in the shade behind many of the group members who stood. I wondered if it was ok that I was crying—and then decided that it was. Alyssa stood holding the lead mare in front of the group. I listened to the first woman’s experience, trying to stay with my own. I was not ready to fully let go of what I had just accessed. I shared next and as I opened my mouth to speak, the tears returned and poured out with my words. I told the story of what had just happened and connected it to my past—in Paradise (my grandparents farm), in hell (the Yale barn where I worked for may years), and now in the present. As I spoke of my desire to just be with horses, the lead mare exhaled load and long through her nose and stepped forward towards the group. Alyssa echoed the mares actions with words—validating what I was saying, what we were feeling, with the congruence of the horses actions. As I spoke of reconnecting to my instincts, the child within, a hawk called from above. I had seen it above us in my peripheral vision and heard it calling as I spoke, but it wasn’t until Alyssa echoed its call, that it was brought to my consciousness. Again, she validated the hawk’s participation by connecting it with our experience. The mare continued to move forward into the group.

Later, Alyssa told me more about the Red Tail Hawk that had joined our process. She said that it often represents vision and the realization of our dreams.

Part IV
Vision

We all returned to the circle outside of the paddock to close the day. We talked about our interests in moving forward from this experience. As I listened, and participated verbally, I realized that my glasses were still on my head—where I had placed them as I cried before. I could see the people across from me in the circle with a clarity that, for the past seven years, had required assistance. I looked out over the brown hills, to the trees and cattle beyond and saw their definition. Here, my body affirmed my experience. I have always known that my return to horses, would be the return of my vision.