28/11/2023
The grand Weekend of Learning hums and sings in me. It’s going to take a little while before I sift and sort all the glorious gems of knowledge and inspiration that I picked up there. There will be much writing and much pondering. (I shall almost certainly make lists, because I love a list.) And, of course, I’ll give it all to you, because this stuff is too good not to share.
I adore finding a sturdy, steady starting point. I do this with my mares and I do this with my writers. I do it with myself, because I’m always going back to the beginning. My mind is flinging and flying with new thoughts, and I need to find the reassuring place to put my first foot on the ground.
I go with instinct, as I so often do. And the first step presents itself. It is: I want to talk to you about how Ben Atkinson stands.
(I love that my intuition has given me something so marvellously plain. I cherish the small things and the simple things, and what could be more small and simple than standing?)
Atkinson only came on my radar this year. I was instantly in awe of what he does with his horses. I gaze at the complex liberty moves, which all rise from beautiful foundations. I could see at once that he was one of the good ones, one of those people who sheds light into the world.
And there he was, this weekend, in real life and, as always, real life is different from the page or the picture or the video. All my senses sharpened. What would I learn, I wondered, from this maestro? Would there be fiendishly complex technical manoeuvres? Would there be fascinatingly recondite trade secrets, which I could steal and take to the field, so the mares and I could dance? I had my notebook at the ready and I was ready to listen and write, to absorb and imbibe.
I did do a lot of writing, but here’s the thing which stayed with me and which comes now to my inner eye, so I can see it as if it were a movie in full technicolour.
It was the special Atkinson standing. It’s the way he holds himself around his horses. He is their point of safety, of reassurance, of balance. They are, I saw vividly, not trained in tricks; they are trained in connection. He is speaking their language, so they understand, and understanding makes them feel easy and safe. So much of that language comes from his body.
He’s quite a slender presence. There is nothing dominant or big or swaggery about him. He walks lightly on the earth, like my little mare Tern. There’s something delicate in him, and yet there is meaning and purpose flowing like a river through his entire physical self. He stands tall, but not like a soldier - almost like a dancer, perhaps, ready to hear his inner music. He’s funny, with the excellent self-deprecating humour of the British, and he knows who he is, and so his horses know who he is too. Some of that is in his head, in his mind, in his thoughts, but it translates marvellously all the way through his physical self.
He is aware, and he is present. He is all there, every bit of him.
I’ll never learn his level of the dance. The red mare and I shall not be pitching up at Olympia, with Tern and Florence and Clova and Freya trundling along behind, and doing flowing, flying movements that make an audience gasp. But I can take that vision of the body, and bring that to the field. I can do that, with my own physical self. I can feel it and picture it and imagine it. I can play with it. The mares will say, ‘Ah, yes. Yes. There is a human who has something we want.’
And what is that? Ease, sureness, honesty. That purpose, which is so vital, but the lovely lightness that can travel with it. The strength to guard those prey animals from the mountain lions, and the gentle responsiveness that sees their needs, their quirks, their moods, their emotions, and tunes in to all of those.
Something like that. Something just like that.