Animals for life

1 12 2019

Paddy was the first horse I cared for and rode entirely on my own. He belonged to a local doctor, who didn’t have time to exercise him regularly due to his commitments as a GP. I’d already learned to ride, taught by a friend who became a professional equestrian, but mostly by galloping up and down green lanes on eager ponies, with the occasional outing to a cross country trial or show. Riding Paddy couldn’t have been more different.

For a start, there was his size. As a 13-year-old, I was just over 5ft, and Paddy was a dinosaur at around 17hh. Most of our time together involved me looking for gates or walls high enough to climb onto his back. Once onboard, though, I loved the feeling of protection he gave me. He lifted his huge feet carefully and glided along as if he were wading through deep water. His rolling rhythm was deeply reassuring and even though I probably would have preferred a perky pony of my own, I came to love Paddy deeply.

Paddy was the first horse I truly considered a friend. I felt Paddy was deeply lonely and that our time together somehow made his life seem a little brighter; I know he certainly brought warmth and reassurance to my own period of teenage anxiety and isolation. When I was with Paddy, I somehow felt less afraid, less churned up inside, and able to relax and enjoy each moment without worry. When I was stressed about something at school, I would think about Paddy’s huge presence and feel calmer.

This week I was privileged to attend a conference organised by the Blue Cross in London, during which the animal welfare charity launched a report on the links between tackling mental health, poverty and loneliness through animal companionship.

The report highlighted the ways that cats, dogs, horses and other animals could improve well-being through providing love and company, motivation and purpose, a sense of trust, distraction from symptoms, increased social interaction, exercise and humour. The report showed how pets bring meaning to lives and help people to maintain a positive view of the self, the world and their future.

During the day, there were many moving stories and films from people who had become homeless or had been in mental health crisis who shared that their pet was their only source of love and support. A poignant 56% of people said they considered their pet their best friend. For some people surveyed, without the need to live for their animals, they might have considered suicide. Animals are literally a lifeline for many. The report also pointed out that ‘shockingly people with severe and prolonged mental illness are on average at risk of dying  15 to 20 years earlier than people without such an illness.’

The Blue Cross supports pet owners in times of need, and their work is inspiring because they understand that looking after the welfare needs of animals means understanding the welfare needs of the people who care for these animals. The Blue Cross report makes many sound recommendations, including investing in more mental health training for their own staff and that NHS mental health trusts commission evaluations on animal assisted therapies, but the one that strikes me most is the recommendation that the mental health service user’s relationship with their pets should be included in any psychological and psychiatric assessments and included in any care or crisis plan by Community Mental Health Teams.

After the conference, I passed many people who will spend their winter on the streets of London with a devoted dog by their side. I remembered the story of Wully. After his girlfriend died and the council refused to pass on the tenancy of the flat they shared, Wully started living on the streets of London with his two dogs, drinking up to four bottles of strong cider a day. He was seen by the staff at Mayhew who persuaded him to put his dogs into their Pet Refuge Programme so that Wully could go into rehab. It took him two tries, but Wully ended up clean and now works as a healthcare advocate for the homeless.

Zoe Edwards, Head of Animal Welfare at Mayhew, said: ‘I remember going to see him a couple of years after, as he was one of my ongoing welfare cases, and he gave me £100 that he had raised for Mayhew, which was so good of him. I am extremely proud of Wully, he is a lovely kind man and it was a privilege to help him and his two lovely Staffies.’

This story inspires me because it shows society operating at its best. When a person has lost their relationship, their home and their livelihood, losing their dog or their cat, is utterly devastating and compounds their sense of loss and loneliness. A truly compassionate society must find ways to sustain the animal friendships that for many isolated and vulnerable people are a vital link to life.

Belinda with Paddy





Taking in the Good

24 11 2019

DSC_0018I don’t have the heart to leave Sheranni and Dragonfly without rugs all winter because I have seen them shiver through the mildest of rain-storms, and come running towards me for cover when the sky breaks open unexpectantly. Their mud-spattered waterproof coats protect them and keep them well-insulated from the wind and cold.

I remember, though, a winter a long time ago, trudging through thigh-deep snow to check on some Arabian horses who had been left out. They were sheltered under a hedge and they looked surprised to see me. Their eyes were large and bright against the backdrop of snow-covered fields and their coats were long, soft and white, luxuriant as Arctic foxes. I’ll never forget the look these horses gave me. They seemed to ask: ‘And just why are you here?’ I left that snowy field feeling humbled and aware that these horses needed nothing from me. They were perfectly adapted when it came to living in nature.

Horses who live in nature are exquisitely attuned to shifts in the seasons, which means little adjustments all year round. Even rugged Arabs have beards and belly fur at this time of the year, and by the end of the day they are making encouraging noises when feed is served. After a cold, wet afternoon, they love to dip their noses and mumble their lips around something soft and nourishing. I enjoy watching them eating in the twilight because it satisfies my need to see that they are well-cared for, even though I know they would work out how to survive a snowy night by sheltering under a hedge.

As a human who cares, I’m drawn to doing much more for my animals than I really need to. Because they don’t have the daily ritual of feeding and because they started life without humans on the horizon, our Dartmoor ponies Bella and Tinker need human intervention even less than Sheranni and Dragonfly. Nevertheless, these ponies certainly know what feed is, and if offered soaked sugar-beet they choose not to turn it down! When the light is fading and time is short, it is tempting to think that feeding the herd is more important than spending time with them.

I have come to realise, though, that sharing time with a pony is an opportunity to tune into what is happening in my own interior world. If I’m busy and distracted by yard jobs, Tinker will be fussing with my coat and asking for her chin to be scratched. If, however, I take a few deep breaths and choose to savour the moment, she relaxes and lowers her head. Just by taking my mind off ‘the next thing’ has a powerful impact on her.

In my reading this week, I’m learning from neuropsychologist Rick Hanson that slowing down and taking a few seconds longer to enjoy brief moments that feel good is good for my own well-being and can over time actually influence the neural pathways in my brain.

In his book Hardwiring Happiness, Hanson outlines four simple steps of taking in the good: 1. Have a positive experience. 2. Enrich it. 3. Absorb it. 4. Link positive and negative material. This process does not mean using positive thinking to somehow drive away the bad, which we all know doesn’t work. If you’ve ever shared something that was stressing you out only to be told: ‘you need to think more positively,’ you’ll know what I mean. Taking in the good doesn’t mean you ignore the stress, sadness or suffering surrounding you. It just means you use a tiny bit of your attention to focus for a tiny bit longer on something that makes you feel warm, supported and connected as and when it happens. It might be something as simple as noticing the moon, or tuning into the warm feeling of someone offering to give you an extra pound coin for your parking ticket as a kind gentleman did for me last week, or savouring the aroma of a small cup of coffee.

Hanson points out that our brains have evolved with a negativity bias, which means that we’re constantly scanning for threats, criticism and problems just in case we need to run or club someone. It’s not our fault our brains are still stuck in the Stone Age, and given the nature of the cauliflower nestling inside our heads, we are doing the best we can:

‘Our reptilian, mammalian, primate, and human ancestors typically spent long periods in the responsive mode punctuated by brief bursts of reactive stress followed by another long stretch of responsive recovery, Modern life violates this ancient template with its pervasive mild to moderate stressors. Consequently, the reactive mode has become the new normal for many people, a kind of chronic inner homelessness that has harmful effects on mental and physical health and on relationships.’

We don’t have to live our lives in a state of hyper-vigilance, on alert for the next worst thing, snapping and snarling at all who get in our way. Hanson writes: ‘Peace, contentment and love are important aims for most people.’ Achieving these aims is possible. By practising taking in the good, moment by moment, we can transform our brains because taking in ‘the sense of feeling safe, satisfied, or connected, you stimulate responsive circuits in your brain. When you stimulate a neural circuit, you strengthen it.’

Looked at this way, pausing with your coffee to watch the sun come up over the sea, noticing the honeysuckle in sweet flower in late November, or teasing tangles from a resting pony’s mane are not incidental moments to be swiped through on our way to the more important, hard stuff; these ordinary moments are vital for well-being, the rewards we harvest by not letting the good slip through our fingers before we’ve had a chance to notice it. Hanson says: ‘It’s just a few jewels each day. But day after day, gradually adding up, they become the good that lasts. It’s the law of little things: lots of little bad things take people to a hard and painful place, and lots of little good things take them to a better one.’





When we share nourishment

20 01 2019

 

 

breakfast 2

The daily ritual of sharing food

Sometimes the simplest actions can reveal significant needs.  Our horses live together in a small family group and every day they share food. During the winter this means gathering around a huge fragrant bale of fermented hay, sweet as pineapple. I love to watch them pull mouthfuls from the warm core. I love to listen to their contented munching and hear their sighs of satisfaction. Watching them close their eyes, I sense that they have everything they need.

It is not always so for us. True satisfaction eludes us when we race through mealtimes or forget to pay attention to what we are eating. When we eat at our desks or in our cars or on the street while talking on our phones. We forget that one of the joys of eating is that it is profoundly social. A meal shared with others is an enriching experience, a time to appreciate the care that has gone into preparing the meal, a time when our way of eating becomes visible to others, no longer a hasty, private affair, but an act of nourishment.

When we are well fed, nourished and noticed, we thrive. Horses spend most of their time grazing. Sharing food in close connection forms a large part of their daily social life. When we enter their meal space, they will often nibble grass around our feet, even though they could move on to graze somewhere fresh. In winter, when they eat their breakfast of soaked sugar-beet, alfalfa, linseed and seaweed, they use touch, nosing from bowl to bowl, sometimes sharing one bowl together, sometimes eating singly.

Watching horses eating, there’s something deeply absorbing about the breath and sweetness of nostrils moist with feed, the cold raindrops in the bare trees, the small brown birds picking through droppings. Ordinary moments become extraordinary.

Watching another living being eat, our thoughts naturally turn to our own sense of what it means to be fed. Sometimes the knowledge of what we need is surprising. One little girl watching the horses said that she rarely eats breakfast at home. She would like to. She would like to have something to eat at the start of every day. Her small voice affirmed this simple truth, and as she shared it, her request was understood by someone who cared and who will see that she does not start the day hungry.

Small matters and small voices create our shared experience of humanity.  There is sometimes so much beauty and truth in what may seem so mundane. When I think of times when someone has helped me to feel more nourished, small gestures of kindness come to mind: the hot water bottles warming my bed; the loving messages and two-hour phone calls; the dog resting her head on my lap; the coffee in a warmed cup, the supper dish fresh out of the oven.

It’s easy to impoverish our own lives when we overlook what truly matters.

 

 





The simplicity of shared experience

7 10 2018

 

dsc_0312

So many traditional equestrian pursuits involve competition, speed, performance and looking polished from the outside. It is no wonder that many people find therapeutic horsemanship puzzling. ‘What exactly is it, you do?’ is a question I’m asked fairly frequently.

From the outside looking in, a therapeutic session looks like nothing much. A field. Some people on camping chairs. A couple of horses moving around or eating grass. Sunshine. Simple ingredients from the outside. It makes me smile when our visitors suddenly catch themselves in the moment. Usually a look of wonder or delight gleams in their eyes as they question out loud: “What on earth are we doing here?”

One response could be to point to all the life events that brought them to this moment. So many people we work with have lived such through extraordinary depths of pain and suffering, it is heart-rending. Violence, depression, fear, doubt, insecurity and anxiety. One of the reason why I find this work so moving is that each person I meet will carry the weight of all they have been through until now, and yet still be searching for a new way of being.

Our horses meet people at the point in their life journey where they are asking questions of profound significance. Who am I? What am I doing here? What is my purpose in life? Incapable of making  a judgement, or sympathising or asking for more colourful details, the horses simply share a moment. They take people into the present. Here the air is cool or warm, the trees suspended in stillness or moving fluently with the wind, the sky clear or clouded, the grass dry or damp with dew, the birdsong piercing or muted and all the sensations in between and there revealed is a subtle, nuanced world of feeling and perception. There revealed is a horse who experiences the world in a totally different way to you, and there you are, and that is all you need to be fully immersed in life as it is being lived.

A shared experience is a special thing. If we allow it, a shared experience with an animal can grant us a sense of looking at the world through the eyes of another. Shared time with horses can become a time when our noisy human concerns quieten and we can see past our preoccupations to meet the world through fresh eyes. It isn’t often that we can find a different perspective on our human world, and slow time with horses is revealing because there we may encounter who we are at the very core of our being.

We observe the horses. We pay attention to them and they reward us by becoming curious about us often in surprising and delightful ways. During a session they will  come and explore us, play with us or simply be quietly with us. We let go of trying to work out what went wrong. In this quiet space, the deadening and frightening weight of our accumulated experience drops away, and there revealed is lightness, playfulness and freedom. Ideas come to the surface and are shared spontaneously without fear.

The horses are grounded in their being. They witness extraordinary acts of human courage and vulnerability. At any moment, they could move away, but they often choose to stay and be part of whatever is emerging and unfolding. The feeling I often get at this point in a session is one of timelessness.

Here, there is time to reflect on what life might be like without the routines of a secure mental health hospital where everything is done for you. Here, you realise you have taken off your mask to wonder whether your true purpose is a life’s work with animals. Here, there is time to share some creative sounds and ideas you’ve been working on and to realise that you are accepted and loved as you are. Here, there is time to notice how much clutter we normally carry around in our thoughts on a busy working day. There is time to smile at one another and laugh and in spite of all the comedy, craziness and chaos in lives, to recognise that we are connected, and we are at peace and it feels good.

There are the horses, and there are we.  Nothing much.

 

 





Living the questions

9 09 2018

 

steve-rusty-allegro

All over the world today, someone will lose someone they love to suicide. Their lives will never again be the same, and questions will remain, sometimes unresolved for years.

Today is significant because it happens to be World Suicide Prevention Day, and it falls on the day my friend Steve would have turned 57 had he not taken his life one summer morning seventeen years ago.

At 57, Steve would have lived through many more adventures than he had already packed into his young life. I imagine him, now, with his wry smile, even more weathered and seasoned with experience. We’re sitting by a wood-burner drinking single malt and he’s telling me tales of travel to remote places, the heights he has climbed: the air, the colour of the lakes and the sky, the astonishing trees, the warmth of the people he has met, and there is a soft, glowing light in his eyes. He’s loving this time in his life. He feels at ease with himself. He has found the most precious jewel. He has peace of mind.

For a long time, I had too many questions for Steve. Why would someone who relished life so much choose to leave it so abruptly? Why would he dismantle everything he had worked so hard to achieve? Why didn’t he tell us what he planning to do? And the most important question: Why didn’t he wait?

If he had waited…but he couldn’t. He was by nature restless, always keen to start preparing for the next trip, the next mountain, the next experience. Steve tasted adventure and the extremes of endurance early. On leaving school, he travelled with his friend Kevin across some of the most dangerous parts of South America, plunging down rivers in a dug-out canoe with a live pig strapped inside, existing on good-will, humour, bananas and the occasional Mars Bar. I had taken a different route and plunged into the world of local news with my first job as a reporter on the Honiton and Ottery News.

On his way home from South America, Steve called in to see me at the newspaper office. We went for a surreal walk up the High Street, me in my meek work clothes, him carrying a huge green rucksack which towered over his back. His skin was burned a deep brown and he had a beard. Still only 19, Steve looked like a man of ten or more years older. He wanted to know what I had been doing while he was away.

Being interested in others, not putting himself first, sharing what he owned were all facets of Steve’s greatness, his energetic spirit that drew people to him. Wherever we went, and we shared many adventures in our twenty year friendship, we honoured humour, honesty and a strong desire to be happy doing what we most loved.

On my desk is a postcard of the Musee Du Louvre with a message dated February 1999. That year we had decided as a spontaneous valentine to meet in Paris, each travelling from different places. The thrill of connection motivated us to live a little more vividly every time we met, and on that Paris trip we were elated as we renewed our vows, not to each other (there were often complications around that) but to life itself.

In his message, Steve’s hand-writing is bold, and slants across the postcard.

“Hoping our dreams will come true! Love Steve xx”

I notice he has underlined both our names. Ever generous, he wanted us both to achieve fulfilment, and it is achingly poignant that I have lived the questions of these past years without him as my travel companion.

When someone you love selects suicide, it carves a hole in your being. It breaks you into pieces, it slams you hard against the rock face of life. The pain is so bad you carry a rucksack of stones around, exhausting yourself with wondering whether there was something you could have done.

The last time I spoke to Steve, he cried. He couldn’t tell me what he was doing in the Psychiatric Unit in Aberdeen, only that he needed time before he could get out. He didn’t want me to visit. ‘I don’t want you to see me like this,’ he said and then he cried, long, silent tears. I stayed on the phone, listening to the sound of the swing doors opening and closing on the hospital corridor.

I should have ignored him and gone to the hospital anyway. But I also know that my unannounced visit might not have saved him. Nothing could have saved Steve except a new question that kept him curious about life. I wonder what questions Steve might have had on the day he took his life. I wonder whether he noticed the irony of preparing ropes to end his life in the crown of a beech tree, the same ropes that had saved his life many times in his work as a tree surgeon. I wonder whether he hesitated before he put the rope around his neck, whether at that moment he heard birdsong, or voices or noticed the clarity of sky and remembered that winter weekend in Paris.

Living the questions requires you to meet whatever life offers, and to understand that there might never be answers. We all must live the question of our being, and it is hard, it is challenging , it is tough, and it is beautiful, it is joyful and it is the life within us all.

Steve and Kevin after South America





Finding our way home

12 08 2018

Girl on horse

I’d so love to own this painting, an oil pastel by Rachel Ricketts, because it reminds me of my own Summer 11 when I discovered home on the back of a horse. I didn’t particularly mind which horse I rode at the time, although I felt most comfortable on a Chestnut part-Arab pony who could fly us across the lanes and through the woods and sometimes over jumps. Being in the stables, grooming the horses or simply breathing along with them, I felt at home.

When you’re eleven, you don’t question things. You’re drawn to people, animals, ideas, activities that either repel you, or reveal you by bringing you closer to yourself, and you don’t realise you’re doing anything remarkable. You’re just living your eleven-year-old life. Through you, your life expresses itself in ways that make complete sense to you, and seem utterly bonkers to other people. Why would you decide Brownies or television or girls in dresses are unfulfilling and instead choose to spend your time cycling ten miles on a bike too big for you with the sun in your eyes, your legs in sweaty long black boots already tired from pushing up hills to spend the day with horses someone else calls their own? Why would you wait so patiently to be asked which horse you wanted to ride, not daring to breathe his name in case you spoiled your chances? Why would you endure extreme cold, extreme hunger, extreme heat, extreme love, extreme fear to be close to a horse who will never be yours? Why would you develop such extreme patience to write down everything you have learned about horses, but fail consistently to finish your maths homework?

Because this is your eleven-year-old life. Because this is you in the process of becoming who you are, and you don’t know it. You know only that you feel good around horses even when you’re falling off and going to hospital and getting stitched up, sometimes unskillfully, and coming home to think only of recovering fast enough to be able to return to the horses as soon as possible. What some young girls of your age consider to be madness is your sanity.

In their remarkably lucid work Coming Home, Dicken Bettinger and Natasha Swerdloff say that home is where we feel most comfortable, where we completely let go and relax.

“In this context, coming home is a letting go of all pretences and just being your true self. It is the place inside of you where you feel most at ease.”

Their enquiry points to a ‘vast inner space,’ a place that is empty and yet filled with the potential of what is about to be born. Looking at my eleven-year-old life from this perspective, I see how I filled my empty space with nourishment. I was drawn to connect with horses, not because I liked them, although I did very much even when I was so very scared of them, but because with them I felt nourished. They fed my inner being.

I might have picked up a paintbrush or flute with the same feeling of reverence or watched the birds or became fascinated with fashion. Art, books, words, music, birds, the sea, fabulous food and clothes, I love them all, but not in the way I love horses, and really I can’t explain why. My love is beyond explanation. It simply is.

And the horses know. If they are fortunate enough to escape too many human agendas or demands, they live rich and textured lives that are at the same time uncomplicated They understand the power of the unspoken because their love is unspoken too, generous, light and free as the wind. Sometimes to their great detriment and in honour of their exquisite sensitivity, they stand and bear suffering in silence

In the words of Bettinger and Swerdloff coming home is ‘realising the deep quiet of your inner being.’

From this deep quiet, lives are created, shaped and formed. No matter how warped they may become, and most lives will buckle out of shape at some point, we are able to come back to the quiet at any time. No matter where we are, we can return home to ourselves.

Coming Home cover





A summer storm

13 05 2018

Meadow 2

As the evenings linger longer, I love being with the horses in the summer meadow. There’s a feeling of space and quiet here that refreshes my mind and allows all the thinking of days that seem to get busier to simply drop away. Just a half hour in the meadow, listening to the horses swishing through the long reedy grass, the drowsy bumble of bees and the bright notes of the skylarks spiralling into the blue, returns me to a more balanced and peaceful place.

It took me a long time to realise that looking after horses could be so natural and calming. In the early days, I would wake with a feeling of knotted anxiety as I drove up to the yard, convinced that today would be the day that I would have to call the vet for an emergency. I mentally prepared myself for all the incidents that could have happened in the night, such as a horse getting trapped in a corner of the stable and not being able to get up, or an eye pierced by a rusty nail I had missed removing with my claw hammer, or a gust of wind taking off the roof, leaving the horses exposed and shivering from cold. None of this happened. It was all in my imagination and in the early days, my imagination concocted such lurid dreams of disaster, I was convinced they had to be true. Unbelievably, I was sometimes disappointed when I arrived to find all was well.

Around a year into looking after my two fine-coated, highly sensitive Arabian horses, I received one of many life lessons that helped to shift my thinking. A summer storm broke in the early hours, and I was immediately awake, pulling on my jeans and boots in the dark, dashing for the car in torrential rain, blaming myself for not checking the forecast and putting on waterproof rugs even though it was July.

I drove like crazy, wipers on full, barely able to breathe as I clung onto the steering wheel, imagining the horses soaked and terrified. As I got out of the car, aluminium jagged lightening split the sky. Heart racing, thoughts tumbling in my mind, I ran to the field, climbed over the gate and another thunderbolt shook everything. In the metallic flash, I saw the horses with their backs up against a hedge looking into the spectacular theatre show of light and rain and noise. They were soaked and warm and perfectly quiet and still. They looked at me in wonderment, surprised I had come for them so early, and in that moment a whole layer of misunderstanding fell away.

“Right there in the uncertainty of everyday chaos is our wisdom mind.”

Pema Chodron

In the middle of the storm, we can find a point of calm, a place of deeper understanding. Indeed, the storms can show up what it is we need to see. Mental health awareness is having the courage to see what we need to see unflinchingly. When we know that we need not turn away from any experience because that experience is an opening for us, we can compassionately use whatever life gives us. And in this knowing, there is peace and freedom.

 

 

 








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