TIME-OUT: The Ability To Create Art

Part IV - Reprogram

(This essay is part of a series on The 4 R's Method©. For context, I do recommend beginning with Part I, Part II, Part III).

Not everyone remembers when they uttered their first word, but I am fairly certain I came out of the womb proclaiming, “I want a pony,” much to my parents’ chagrin. Large barn animals were not part of the plan. We lived in the suburbs, not on a farm.

A pony? Out of the question.

I persisted. This was a tightrope I was willing to walk.

I don’t remember a time when I didn’t love horses. Born with a deep connection to horses, the horsey virus, many of my earliest, happiest, personal memories are of spending my childhood in a barn, embracing the equestrian life, the bouquet of supple leather and Timothy hay, purring barn cats, stubborn goats, and an odd dog. Instead of indulging me with my own pony, my parents had me take riding lessons from Mrs. Rollins when I was six. Fantasies of buying the field from our neighbors so I could have a horse in our backyard grew daily. There’s a dead tree from the countless plans I etched in art pads of barns my parents could build for my horse and me. I told them that our unfinished basement could be our tack room and we could have saddle racks and bridle hooks along the sweating cement walls. Anna Sewell’s “Black Beauty”, Marguerite Henry’s “Misty of Chincoteague”,  and Walter Farley’s “Black Stallion” series barely made it back into the bookshelves in my childhood bedroom before I pulled them out to read again and again. Every USET (United States Equestrian Team) rider’s name imprinted itself onto my brain – Bruce Davidson, Karen Stives, including the names of the horses they showed: JJ Babu, Touch of Class, and Ben Arthur. The Dover Saddlery catalogs arrived and I’d race up to my room to dog-ear every page of equine accoutrement I dreamed to possess – chaps and boots, saddles and blankets, tack trunks and leather halters with brass name plates. With bits of hay in my hair and saddle soap under my finger nails, I generated long lists of names of my future horses.

Fortunately, my grandparents owned Shoulderbone Farm, a bucolic 200-acre slice of northern Maryland land where Hereford cattle, grey Welsh ponies, Thoroughbred and Quarter horses, and several yellow Labrador Retrievers roamed the rolling, grassy fields. Every home should be, to some degree, a respite from the outside world. I had an automatic, visceral sense of relief and relaxation when we turned left at the top of the steep, Willow-lined driveway to lead us down the hill to the farm.  Shoulderbone, serene and tranquil, was my magic kingdom where my passion for horses, nature, and the outdoors provided insulation against the hustle and bustle that often lies with young families. There were crab feasts on the terrace overlooking one of the pastures while ponies and horses grazed nearby to humming cicadas and cooing Mourning Doves. People were always around. Men and women who worked on the farm, extended family, friends riding by on their horses stopping by to say hello and grab a cool beverage. My grandfather showed me how to pull worms from the ground to fish for Sunfish in Lake Sybil that we’d fry up and eat for breakfast and my grandmother and aunts taught me to ride. Two of my cousins and I often could be found riding my grandmother’s grey ponies through the woods weaving and bobbing through the trees to make our way to the creek to take the ponies for a swim. For a girl who adored horses, there are few things more satisfying than being with them – as much as possible.

My grandmother, unable to ride horses due to an accident decades earlier, had taken up the sport of driving a “four-in-hand” – she had four grey ponies hitched up to pull my grandfather and her in her carriages. One of those ponies, Greenfield Nancy, eventually became mine.

Nancy saved my life.

Nancy was the medicine my family gave me to heal after my brother died when I was ten years old. It was Nancy the pony who fed my pulverized spirit with love, joy, bliss, ease, and grace, when the rest of my world had been smashed – the deleterious consequence of death after the unexpected loss of a child.  Quite understandably, my young parents were in ruins so I went inward, shutting down my voice, and turned to Nancy. We took long walks together in the woods – just the two of us. I cared for her. She loved me without condition. One of the best things about an animal you truly love is that you know the animal loves you back. Nancy’s soul came through to love and comfort me. I could write much more about how Nancy saved my life; but trust me, she did.

Shortly, I found competition in horse showing and a line of larger ponies and horses were needed as I grew taller and more accomplished. I loved them all: Houdini, Bamboo, Comet. Again, more horses were not in my parents’ plan, so I worked as a babysitter to cover the expense of horse shows, and boarded my horses at a co-op barn, where we were offered a discounted board if I took care of the horses and barn one day a week.

Beginning at ten-years-old, in addition to riding Nancy five-six times a week, one day a week I was at the barn in the morning and evening to feed horses, clean the barn, and bring in or let out all twelve horses. And I couldn’t have been happier. For many years I cajoled, begged, and bartered with my parents to keep up this equine hobby that eventually transpired into my playing polo. They were not riders. They didn’t really enjoy horses. They dropped me off and picked me up. Horses were mine alone.

Then at thirteen years old, polo became an obsession. Dispirited by horse showing, I craved something dare devil. Falling in love with a sport is surprisingly similar to falling in love with a person. There’s that first intriguing glimpse that gets your curiosity going. Then, over days and months, you are reeled in, bewitched not just by the snatches of adrenaline and physical challenge, and not just by vague romantic notions of a fanciful future, but even by the acceptance of losing to another team that other people might not appreciate. Much like any young person who finds a sport they love being a polo player became my identity for several of my formative years. What dare devil wouldn’t flock to the thrill of organized and smooth flowing chaos during a polo match, adrenaline pulsing action with horses and riders chasing a ball, the opportunity to challenge my body and mind in coordinated fashion while riding a galloping, beautiful polo pony.

Resembling many competitive sports – and the very realistic “expired by” date, the prospect to go pro dwindles as you get closer to the top. Polo is not quite like tennis where you have some equipment and fresh neon balls – a string of eight horses – at least – was needed just for starters – and I didn’t have the money or the resources for them. There was little doubt in my mind that I could not sustain polo beyond college unless I won the lottery or created the next wow factor. The beauty of playing polo in high school and college was that we didn’t have to own the horses. I only had to show up to practice and play. Perhaps there was a hopefulness that there was a future; but I didn’t stick around to ever know. I stayed in college but after one-year playing at the collegiate level, I quit the team.

Having been a rider my entire life, shedding the polo player identity was not easy. Quitting the team was embarrassing after I’d worked so hard to get there. Guilt and shame lingered. I made excuses and lied about my reasons. Admitting that it was no longer fun and I knew I wouldn’t be able to play after college didn’t seem adequate.

The crux of the matter was that I was unrequited in many areas of my life and the loss of my polo identity didn’t help. My brother’s death, my parents’ inevitable divorce (80% of couples divorce after the loss of a child), and my dogged determination to not-need-anyone-I-can-do-it-alone bruised and stunted whatever emotional growth I should have made. The extraordinary, fearless girl who galloped on her pony across the hilly landscape was now just an ordinary young woman leading her life from a place of fear. I believed that the light inside me had been snuffed out, forgetting that I had been gifted with reason, the ability to create art, and with a conscience.

Many of us do not want to be honest with ourselves because it is scary. Knowing now that I could and should have been honest may have helped me shed the identity much more smoothly than I did. But hey, I didn’t know.

In recognizing my emotions and allowing myself to feel them when they popped up, I could have released the heavy, damp sentiments I had about myself and realized that it was ok to stop, especially if I wasn’t enjoying it and had no future in it. But what even happens after releasing the blech emotion? There is another R.

That’s where Reprogramming enters.

Reprogramming is basically taking the negative feelings, finding their opposite, and turning those positive words into affirmations to help move through the healing. After we release this stale energy, we begin to plant new seeds in that same space by reprogramming this inner space with new energy. This is a process of defining what it is we truly desire and then creating these reprogrammings to be recited as medicine. By setting intentions and practicing these new frequencies, we build a powerful strategy to manifest our desires.

For example, if you feel abandoned after your sport, determine what is the opposite of abandoned: Cherished. Supported. Treasured. Valued. Adored. Endeared. Unconditionally loved.

Write out: I feel cherished. I am supported. I accept love. I am valued…etc on index cards. I invite you to put these statements in your journal AND on individual sticky notes in a place where you see them often, as well as copy them onto an appointment on your phone and set a reminder, “Say Affirmations” to say them to yourself 5-10x a day for at least 60 to 120 days without fail.

This, my beautiful humans, is Reprogramming.

When you are searching for your purpose post-sport, first, please be patient and kind with yourself. Your delicate spirit is not broken, but perhaps, aches. Perhaps the break-up with your sport feels the equivalent of a gigantic open wound. Shedding your Sport-Specific-Identity (SSI) can feel confusing, dark, and lonely. While you are waiting for a promise from the Divine to happen, some things have to develop in the dark, in secret. Reprogramming happens in the dark; however, trust that the Divine is bringing it all together.

You have to believe when there’s no sign on the outside that what’s inside is really alive. That is Spirit’s promise to you. You may not see any sign of life until one day, after you Recognize, Release, and Reprogram consistently, a sliver of light shines through. Walk with faith; not, by sight.

I create my art – which is my life. My love-affair with ponies and horses lasts today as I still get giddy when I see a trailer on the road and eagerly look for a tail or a muzzle poking out; however, I no longer own a horse nor do I ride. I am fine with this for now because the time isn’t right, because I know I will ride again. I have faith I will.

Someday…

Dubois, Wyoming, July 2023, still with the horsey virus