By LESLIE MCDONALD
I was bold. I was fearless. I could gallop and turn and jump. Nothing was too high, too wide, too far. No horse was too big or too green. I was blessed with skill sets evolved from a child’s natural instincts into the confident muscle memory of seasoned adulthood.
My horses were my passion, my vocation, and my life. I had shown and chased and hunted up hills and down, covering more ground than could be remembered. I had always been able to make my mounts soar, and for years, it had been enough. But the passage of time and miles logged in the saddle challenged me that there was more beyond the rush of stride over plank board fences. I began to realize that while I possessed the speed and power, I lacked the ability to hear the music. What I truly yearned for was to learn to dance.
Determined to connect with my horse’s inner tempo, I lengthened my stirrups, deepened my seat, pulled back my shoulders, and went in search of the Master who could empower me with the secret of the dance. The search for my ideal Master was not easy. It took time, patience and travel to find this elusive soul who could give clarity to the music I wished to feel.
My ultimate Master was Dutch, recently come to the United States with a terrific resume, but limited English skills. However, his vast expertise in the nuances of dressage more than made up for any verbal communication shortcomings. He was a taskmaster who gave the best to his pupil and expected reciprocity.
In the early days, the Master’s dry sense of humor was often lost on me as I struggled to comprehend and execute the exercises to his demanding standards. There was no middle ground or room for negotiation. The lessons were difficult. Nothing was given without being earned. Oftentimes, I felt like a clumsy novice rather than an accomplished pro, struggling to override decades of muscle memory that had been perfectly attuned to the hunter-jumper world, but were frequently in contrast to the aids required by my newfound venture. But my desire to feel the music and dance surmounted the frustration of those early lessons.
My many years in many saddles had earned me the reputation as an effective trainer known for patiently chipping away at a horse’s problem issues until they were corrected. In my professional past, the focus had been on the horses I trained, but now the tables were turned to focus on my personal weaknesses.
To address my shortcomings, the Master and I went round and round, learning movements, repeating movements in a determined search for the music that would lead me to the dance. Through hours and months of training, the corrections and repetitions seemed endless. The bend was lost in the half pass, the haunches were leading. Do it again! Too much upper-body movement made the tempi changes swing like a failed sobriety test. Do it again!! The downward extended canter transition blew through a non-defined corner. Do it again!!! Too much angle. A shoulder-in is not a leg yield! Do it again!!!!
Summer passed into fall into winter into spring. There was no pivotal “aha” moment, but slowly, amazingly, I sensed that I had begun to absorb the Master’s system. I learned to drop my weight deeper into the saddle, to release and allow things to happen without force, to breathe with the horse through my aids. As I replaced my tendency toward power with patient poise, I gradually began to feel the Master’s instructions setting me up for proper movements without constant restarts and reminders. Every now and then, in the background of my rides, I was beginning to be aware of a fleeting hint of melody.
And then one spring morning, as I entered the training arena for my regular session with the Master, there was music beckoning from every corner like some ethereal reward just waiting for me to canter forward and claim it. As my ride progressed in quality and complexity, the music swelled, growing beneath each of my movements. With each fluid half pass and nailed flying change, the ride evolved from mere set training exercises to freeform dance that intensified until the music climaxed in a full crescendo on the final centerline.
I stood quietly at the end of the ride, not wanting to release the amazing moment that I had trained so hard to attain. The dance was completed, and still the music reverberated in my head, but the experience had not been mine alone. I sensed the Master had heard the music as well. As we passed out of the arena gate, he gave a little snort of pleasure and playfully struck out at a swallowtail butterfly that flitted across our path. The warm spring sun gave a shaggy lift to the brown hairs of his nearly shed out coat that glistened with hard-earned sweat.
There was a tingle of satisfaction about him that I had never before felt at the completion of one of our lessons. I knew he realized that I could finally hear the music that he had tried so hard for so many months to share with me. I gave his neck a hearty, grateful pat as my Master and newly formed dance partner swung his head around to look back for the well-earned sugar cube reward that had culminated all our lessons since our first meeting.
Dedicated to the memory of Tusquin, the finest Master with whom it has been my pleasure to train and dance.
