One of my favorite concepts in vaquero horsemanship is “it’s a feel following a feel.”
In that short, almost silly sounding phrase (which conjures up imagines of painfully awkward, hormone-infused prom dances) is the core of an entire philosophy.
Whenever I’ve heard a clinician say it, I’ve nodded sagely in agreement. So obvious, right? You feel for the horse. He feels for you. And off you go, riding as one in zen-like feeliness. (yes, that’s really a word in my world).
But the reality can be much different than the feely ideal in your head. You are riding your horse, feeling stuff (or trying to) — and waiting for that following thing to happen. The clinician made it seem so easy, like a wave of the hand or flick of the finger, a softening of the seat or offer of the leg. A melting of aid and intention, of ask and response, of two parts summing into a whole.
The clinician made it seem so easy, like a wave of the hand or flick of the finger, a softening of the seat or offer of the leg. A melting of aid and intention, of ask and response, of two parts summing into a whole.
Instead, you’re getting that worried sense that nothing is happening at all. You hold your reins in that dainty way that you always associate with softness — and put on your “feel” face (slightly dreamy expression with eyes staring off into space somewhere). And you wait with a hopeful air — for the feel and harmony to come.
Meanwhile, your horse is heavy in your hands or tight under your seat. No matter how you squint into the horizon line or delicately hold up the reins like Kleenex caught in your fingernails. The optimistic tone of your equitation position (heels down, chin up) becomes strained (any minute now, feel is going to happen, omg please let it be really soon) and your horse clops along, getting less light with each step.
This is often when I darkly contemplate why I never pursued my budding talent in knitting instead of this whole horse thing that I clearly will never get better at. With that thought, I usually smile ruefully, settle down and begin to apply perspective to the situation.
I’ve found that being quiet mentally almost always yields insights. But the mind can’t have that quiet environment if your emotions are chirping loudly in the background like crickets on caffeine (which is what emotions like to do). One way to get the crickets to shut up (or least reduce the decibel level) is to laugh at yourself and focus on the entertaining elements of your current predicament.
The good news is that irony and horses go together. They are inseparable traveling buddies. So trust me — you will find humor if you go looking for it on horseback.
The good news is that irony and horses go together. They are inseparable traveling buddies. So trust me — you will find humor if you go looking for it on horseback.
I always thought that feel was like a spiritual Holy Spirit cloud kind of deal — that enveloped you and the horse when you did things “right” (like multiple choice tests in school) as the rider. There would be poofy lightness and starlight and maybe even vaguely angelic humming as you felt your horse and he felt you. And off you would both go, all leg yield and haunches-in pretty, dancing down the flying lead change lane.
It’s not like that.
Instead (at least for me), it’s realizing that feel isn’t primarily about aids or perfectly executed maneuvers. It’s also not about have just the right astrological signs align or whatever pseudo-spiritual state of grace you prefer.
As riders, we offer the feel first. We are the leaders in the dance (ideally, anyway). As humans, it’s natural for us to think that we only offer things through intentional acts. Hey horse, here’s my leading rein (see how dainty I hold it?) and carefully shifted seat bones.
But what I’ve recently noticed (thank you, irony), is that the feel starts with our entire body and tone. My legs might be in the perfect textbook equitation position (this is actually highly unlikely, but roll with me for the sake of the analogy) — yet the horse doesn’t respond the way the book says he should.
If I quiet my mind and try to just “see” what is happening, I might finally notice that my legs are slightly clenched above the knee. Not a lot — not like a crouching tiger or anything crazy like that — just a little. Maybe because I’m happy to be in the saddle that day and I’m trying so hard to ride well for my horse. I then focus on softening those muscles — while keeping them in the same position — and my horse immediately exhales and takes an effortless step or two.
I get so excited that I forget to steer for a few seconds. And the effortless steps go away, as my horse veers to the right. I overcorrect to the left and my thighs clamp back down again (just a little) — and we are back to square one. But I remember this time — and soften my leg grip more quickly. Two effortless steps.
Then my leg gets too loose and my horse drifts his hindquarters one inch to the left. By the time I notice it, the drift is now three inches. My legs and seat scoop my horse (and his hindquarters) back underneath me. One effortless step.
I get all enthused again and try to hold on to that effortless step. The horse it belongs to can’t be held in a fixed moment though. With twenty jarring, staccato steps, he reminds me of that. During those steps, I notice that my shoulders are tight, hovering right under my ears (from wanting so badly to do things “right”). I drop them and my horse flows a little easier. One-half of an effortless step, followed by three of the same.
That’s a feel following a feel.
It changes every moment and requires constant body awareness. If I’m diligent, I might get a dozen effortless steps per ride and a slight headache (from concentrating so hard). But it’s worth it — because those effortless steps are so sublime to experience. They are also nearly impossible to describe in words. The sensation of gliding, of hovering almost weightlessly (yet with dynamic impulsion) is a joy. There is speed, lightness and strength — all delicately teetered in vibrant balance. It’s graceful but also powerfully athletic — in the way that working a cow can be both elegant and gritty at the same time.
If I’m diligent, I might get a dozen effortless steps per ride and a slight headache (from concentrating so hard). But it’s worth it — because those effortless steps are so sublime to experience.
What’s really cool is that the result (each effortless step) contains every element of the work that preceded (and produced) it. Including all the mistakes you made for the last year or so, the ones that made you finally realize what wasn’t working and got you started searching for the right approach. An approach that you soon learned changes a little each ride, depending on you and your horse — and what your summed whole needs in that particular moment. Your mistakes are as important to the process as the ideal “feel” that you aspire to — for your mistakes are a guide back to exactly what you need to change or adjust to fit the situation.
It’s challenging to develop body awareness as adults. We become so accustomed to moving a certain way, holding our muscles in daily patterns that can easily settle into tension over time. What seems like a natural way to carry our head or sit straight can actually be hilariously off-kilter when observed by an outside observer (or by objective standards like measuring tape or leveler tools).
Due to an entertaining high jump injury from my prepubescent years, as well as a mild congenital curve in my lumbar vertebrae, my left hip is pretty sure it’s always supposed to be slightly arced upward. This is what seems “right” and balanced to me. When I actually put my left hip into the correct place, I immediately feel like I’m leaning way too far down my left side.
I’ve learned that sensation means that I’m actually more balanced (even though my hip and left side are shouting at me to arc them back upward a couple degrees). But it almost always takes me awhile to remember that during a ride. I’ll be posting along, wondering why my horse’s hindquarters are washing out to the left and getting all tight about what I’m doing wrong — and then I’ll notice, oh yeah, there’s my left hip curling upward a little (and taking my entire left leg with it).
Those washed out hindquarters are an example of a feel following a feel. My left leg kind of exited the scene (even if only by a degree or two) — and my horse followed that invitation (or feel) perfectly. Even though I didn’t consciously ask for it. Instead I was thinking really hard about riding refined and pretty, while tightening my core in anticipation of how awesome some effortless steps would feel.
What makes this even more fun is that your horse also has old patterns of carrying his body that might not be perfectly symmetrical. He might think it’s just crazy talk to suggest that he might want to keep all four legs moving equally on a circle. One of my horses loves to put just a little extra weight on his right front (it’s a long story) — and when I finally noticed that and began to redirect him more effectively, he really thought I was trying to make him fall down. I had to convince him that his balance was actually better with evenly distributed weight. Just like I have to keep reminding my left hip to drop down more than it wants to. And eventually, with practice and time, my left hip and my horse’s right front will relearn what the “right” feel is for true balance.
And that’s just the physical aspect of feel. If I pay close attention, I’ll see that my horse is equally sensitive to the tone as well as the mechanics of my aids. For example, if I’m gripping slightly with my thighs because I’m full of happy anticipation for the ride — well, my horse will let me know he’d like a softer aid there, but he’ll be pretty relaxed about that feedback.
But if my muscles are gripping because I’m a tad wary of the flying pterodactyl up ahead (that my horse hasn’t spotted yet) — well, my horse is going to be much more reactive and agitated in response. Even if my legs are gripping with the exact same amount of pressure under those two circumstances, he will recognize the difference between the “yay, I’m so happy to be in the saddle” and “omg, we are about to die” vibes.
But if my muscles are gripping because I’m a tad wary of the flying pterodactyl up ahead (that my horse hasn’t spotted yet) — well, my horse is going to be much more reactive and agitated in response. Even if my legs are gripping with the exact same amount of pressure under those two circumstances, he will recognize the difference between the “yay, I’m so happy to be in the saddle” and “omg, we are about to die” vibes.
So in addition to body awareness, a refined rider must also have good emotional control. Plus mastery of the aids and how to execute them in the way that best suits the horse you are riding at the moment. In other words, a lifetime of learning, time well spent in pursuit of those effortless steps — and what they bring out in each individual horse and the rider.
Pretty deep stuff, that’s for sure. So many subtle layers, all summed up by: A feel following a feel. I may never fully get there — but I’ll plan to keep making progress (slowly, step by step) for the rest of my life.
Even if there never is any angelic humming during the process, which is probably overrated anyway (not to mention highly distracting).