NON-LINEAR COMMUNICATION
Horses Remind Us of our Innate Relationship with Life
By: Kerri Lake, USA
PC: George Brauneis
Human society depends on spoken language. We are all taught and conditioned to use spoken language and organize our thinking so we can explain using words. But none of us started our lives with such a linear approach to understanding. Before words, even before emotions and intentions, we have many dimensions of feeling, awareness and knowing.
Horses help people remember this world of feeling with a sense of safety, in the absence of judgment. When we are willing to acknowledge communication in the non-linear world of “how it feels,” we make ourselves available to rich connection with animals and with other humans.
PC: George Brauneis
Non-Linear Communication
By the age of 4, Eddie already knows the emotional weather that can blow around when adults talk to each other. It seems like storms show up at random times - voices like thunder pushing feelings like hot lightening through his body. Other times the adults float softer feelings through him. He never knows what a day is going to feel like.
On the really stormy days though, he knows what to do. When the weather is too much and his head hurts, Eddie walks out to the back yard to be with his friends the grasses, the clover, the bees and the flowers. They feel him coming. He feels welcome. Just a few steps into the grass, Eddie drops down onto his knees and tips his body forward, plopping into the grass belly down, arms stretched out hugging the ground. The grass itches until it tickles, and he smiles. His eyes, now on the same level as the white clover flowers, have the same view as the tiny buzzing flies flitting from blade of grass to flower petal. Their movement makes sense. It feels reassuring and his body calms down.
The thunder of human emotions fades as if into the distant past, and the music of the grasses, the insects and flowers grows louder in his ears, and in his heart. He listens with his whole body. He closes his eyes. The grasses tickle his cheeks and the end of his nose. The community of life in the backyard sings to him, “Eddie’s here! Tra-la-la! We’re all here! We all feel the sun, we all feel the earth! We all feel each other, and all is well!”
Embraced in the song, in this richness of life, Eddie drifts into a sweet sleep, knowing he is going to be okay.
By the age of 4, Eddie already knows the emotional weather that can blow around when adults talk to each other. It seems like storms show up at random times - voices like thunder pushing feelings like hot lightening through his body. Other times the adults float softer feelings through him. He never knows what a day is going to feel like.
On the really stormy days though, he knows what to do. When the weather is too much and his head hurts, Eddie walks out to the back yard to be with his friends the grasses, the clover, the bees and the flowers. They feel him coming. He feels welcome. Just a few steps into the grass, Eddie drops down onto his knees and tips his body forward, plopping into the grass belly down, arms stretched out hugging the ground. The grass itches until it tickles, and he smiles. His eyes, now on the same level as the white clover flowers, have the same view as the tiny buzzing flies flitting from blade of grass to flower petal. Their movement makes sense. It feels reassuring and his body calms down.
The thunder of human emotions fades as if into the distant past, and the music of the grasses, the insects and flowers grows louder in his ears, and in his heart. He listens with his whole body. He closes his eyes. The grasses tickle his cheeks and the end of his nose. The community of life in the backyard sings to him, “Eddie’s here! Tra-la-la! We’re all here! We all feel the sun, we all feel the earth! We all feel each other, and all is well!”
Embraced in the song, in this richness of life, Eddie drifts into a sweet sleep, knowing he is going to be okay.
PC: George Brauneis
Wired To Connect
I stepped into Dufresne’s (pronounced doo-FRANE) paddock after paying his $50 purchase price and $7 for a plastic halter. I hadn’t planned on buying a horse that day. But when I saw him scramble into the tiny auction-block paddock covered in wounds, hair missing on his back from whip marks and being somehow dragged across the ground, when I saw the life still raging in his eyes, my hand went up in the air. I now own a just gelded 2-year-old bay colt who’s had a ridiculously poor start in life.
“Oh, YOU’RE the one who bought that horse. It took six of us to get him into a trailer. You better be careful - he’s gonna kill you.”
Uncomfortable animals all around call out for relief. Metal gates, panels and chains clang without remorse, betraying the fact that the spaces are too small for the animals they hold. Stress pricks up the hairs on the back of everyone’s neck. All the beings here share the same sense of dense, oppressive control, but not every being relates to it the same way.
“You let us know when you’re ready an’ we’ll rope him for ya. You’re not going to be able to catch that one.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Standing fifteen feet from my new friend, I let him look at me. I let him see me. He has an already indelible impression of humans handling him in ways that lead to pain, fear and damage to his body. Now here I show up, looking like a human. I’m not going to be able to control this horse into trusting me. My heart hasn’t the callouses to let these guys rope and wrestle him again. I need to let him decide for himself if I am a different kind of human.
Letting him see me means I must see myself. I can’t hide from myself and expect him to find me trustworthy. Have I ever handled horses in the way these other humans, calloused and hardened have? Yes. I have to admit, I learned how to behave that way. I stand in front of this horse, and I feel the truth and dismay of my own history. Yes, I have used ropes and whips before in ways that invoke pain instead of connection.
While visiting the truth of my history, I felt familiar waves of grief, power and hardened resolve move through me. As they move, they give way to the openness of my heart on this day, which is all that really matters. Watching the movement of my own experiences, I keep my heart open for him, letting him see the movement in any way he might relate to. I do nothing to hide what I feel. I let him watch and draw his own conclusions.
His feet don’t move. His ears don’t move. His body stands square and still while his eyes burn, but I know he feels me. I feel him feeling me.
I show him the halter. Why hide it? I’m going to ask him to wear it, and I’m not here to trick him. Quite the opposite. I want to include him in so much of everything that we sense and feel in tandem, providing a sense of safety and confidence in our shared experience. I don’t expect him to calculate and predict what I’ll do with the halter. I want to offer him how we can feel about it together.
We need to move quickly, but I can’t expect him to know that. Impatience is the order of the day in a facility where time and space are money. The auction holding pens aren’t set up for humans and animals to just hang out, connecting outside time and space. Livestock, in this place, are commodities. I feel a steady push at my back reminding me this is not someplace to settle in and relax.
I begin sharing with him the feel of a walk together through the loud, uncomfortable auction yard. I share the idea and presence of a horse trailer, wide open, hay on the floor, ready to transport him to a different place. His feet stock-still, he blows his nose and works his mouth for just a moment, just to relax his tongue into a new position. It relaxes his mind, too. My own breath acknowledges the space he just created, the tension he just released. My body relaxes. I feel him feeling me. We feel closer.
With cowboys watching from behind pillars and stanchions, ropes at the ready, I change the tone of my presence, and this horse keeps watching me. My own feet stock-still, arms at my sides, I create the feeling of myself about to move toward him, of placing the halter on his face and turning together toward the gate. As if bestowing a gift from on-high, this small horse turned his ear toward me, just one ear. I felt his eye relax. He opened the space between us. This was his consent. It’s time for us to move.
I could have applied pressure that forced his attention to the line I want him to walk. I could have called for ropes to scare, grab and pull him where humans think he should go. I could have stood behind him and waved and stomped, driving him toward the goal. For some, the high-pressure, forceful approach is all they know. At one point, it was what I thought I had to do too. Today, I felt my way through, offering options based on how they feel rather than solving “problems" based solely on human perception. In doing so, he “heard” me clearly and chose to participate.
As he and I approached the trailer that would transport him to a five-acre pasture with grass two feet tall, he volunteered to walk up beside me and step into the trailer side-by-side. He put his head down to munch hay on the floor of the trailer and once more gave me his ear.
“I get it. Let’s go.”
I stepped into Dufresne’s (pronounced doo-FRANE) paddock after paying his $50 purchase price and $7 for a plastic halter. I hadn’t planned on buying a horse that day. But when I saw him scramble into the tiny auction-block paddock covered in wounds, hair missing on his back from whip marks and being somehow dragged across the ground, when I saw the life still raging in his eyes, my hand went up in the air. I now own a just gelded 2-year-old bay colt who’s had a ridiculously poor start in life.
“Oh, YOU’RE the one who bought that horse. It took six of us to get him into a trailer. You better be careful - he’s gonna kill you.”
Uncomfortable animals all around call out for relief. Metal gates, panels and chains clang without remorse, betraying the fact that the spaces are too small for the animals they hold. Stress pricks up the hairs on the back of everyone’s neck. All the beings here share the same sense of dense, oppressive control, but not every being relates to it the same way.
“You let us know when you’re ready an’ we’ll rope him for ya. You’re not going to be able to catch that one.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Standing fifteen feet from my new friend, I let him look at me. I let him see me. He has an already indelible impression of humans handling him in ways that lead to pain, fear and damage to his body. Now here I show up, looking like a human. I’m not going to be able to control this horse into trusting me. My heart hasn’t the callouses to let these guys rope and wrestle him again. I need to let him decide for himself if I am a different kind of human.
Letting him see me means I must see myself. I can’t hide from myself and expect him to find me trustworthy. Have I ever handled horses in the way these other humans, calloused and hardened have? Yes. I have to admit, I learned how to behave that way. I stand in front of this horse, and I feel the truth and dismay of my own history. Yes, I have used ropes and whips before in ways that invoke pain instead of connection.
While visiting the truth of my history, I felt familiar waves of grief, power and hardened resolve move through me. As they move, they give way to the openness of my heart on this day, which is all that really matters. Watching the movement of my own experiences, I keep my heart open for him, letting him see the movement in any way he might relate to. I do nothing to hide what I feel. I let him watch and draw his own conclusions.
His feet don’t move. His ears don’t move. His body stands square and still while his eyes burn, but I know he feels me. I feel him feeling me.
I show him the halter. Why hide it? I’m going to ask him to wear it, and I’m not here to trick him. Quite the opposite. I want to include him in so much of everything that we sense and feel in tandem, providing a sense of safety and confidence in our shared experience. I don’t expect him to calculate and predict what I’ll do with the halter. I want to offer him how we can feel about it together.
We need to move quickly, but I can’t expect him to know that. Impatience is the order of the day in a facility where time and space are money. The auction holding pens aren’t set up for humans and animals to just hang out, connecting outside time and space. Livestock, in this place, are commodities. I feel a steady push at my back reminding me this is not someplace to settle in and relax.
I begin sharing with him the feel of a walk together through the loud, uncomfortable auction yard. I share the idea and presence of a horse trailer, wide open, hay on the floor, ready to transport him to a different place. His feet stock-still, he blows his nose and works his mouth for just a moment, just to relax his tongue into a new position. It relaxes his mind, too. My own breath acknowledges the space he just created, the tension he just released. My body relaxes. I feel him feeling me. We feel closer.
With cowboys watching from behind pillars and stanchions, ropes at the ready, I change the tone of my presence, and this horse keeps watching me. My own feet stock-still, arms at my sides, I create the feeling of myself about to move toward him, of placing the halter on his face and turning together toward the gate. As if bestowing a gift from on-high, this small horse turned his ear toward me, just one ear. I felt his eye relax. He opened the space between us. This was his consent. It’s time for us to move.
I could have applied pressure that forced his attention to the line I want him to walk. I could have called for ropes to scare, grab and pull him where humans think he should go. I could have stood behind him and waved and stomped, driving him toward the goal. For some, the high-pressure, forceful approach is all they know. At one point, it was what I thought I had to do too. Today, I felt my way through, offering options based on how they feel rather than solving “problems" based solely on human perception. In doing so, he “heard” me clearly and chose to participate.
As he and I approached the trailer that would transport him to a five-acre pasture with grass two feet tall, he volunteered to walk up beside me and step into the trailer side-by-side. He put his head down to munch hay on the floor of the trailer and once more gave me his ear.
“I get it. Let’s go.”
Designed To Work Together
Horses lead by example with their willingness to connect. Beyond willingness, they prioritize connection as their foundation of safety, of clarity about their world and each other. Humans like Eddie, who are for whatever reason, available to this connection become available to the experience of shared senses, non-linear communication. In connection we can know that we’re seeing the same trees or birds or buildings. We know because we feel it. We can sense that we’re not alone with another human, plant or animal, because we feel it. It’s only when a human retreats into the linear-only assertion that life is to be strictly measured, analyzed and controlled, that the sense of connection appears to be lost. Connection is never truly lost.
Our capacity to linearize, to analyze and overlay an abstract order onto what we observe in life is actually part of the profound gift of being human. While the capacity to linearize and potentially go against our nature may seem like a curse, it is also a blessing. Stretching far enough against our nature may spring-load our launch into a spiritual journey, a seeking for connection or seeking for what more exists. On the journey of discovering who we are in the family of life, the capacity to listen and relate through our non-linear communication integrates with a physical world built from calculations and right angles. The human world view then stabilizes on a foundation of senses from which we can apply our intellect.
Every person on the planet is already wired to relate non-linearly with all of life. Horses offer the opportunity to become aware, in the gentlest of ways, of just how willing the natural world is to receive us and reconnect. They offer us the opportunity to become aware of how humanity is still included in the family of nature. Our part is to make ourselves available.~*~
Horses lead by example with their willingness to connect. Beyond willingness, they prioritize connection as their foundation of safety, of clarity about their world and each other. Humans like Eddie, who are for whatever reason, available to this connection become available to the experience of shared senses, non-linear communication. In connection we can know that we’re seeing the same trees or birds or buildings. We know because we feel it. We can sense that we’re not alone with another human, plant or animal, because we feel it. It’s only when a human retreats into the linear-only assertion that life is to be strictly measured, analyzed and controlled, that the sense of connection appears to be lost. Connection is never truly lost.
Our capacity to linearize, to analyze and overlay an abstract order onto what we observe in life is actually part of the profound gift of being human. While the capacity to linearize and potentially go against our nature may seem like a curse, it is also a blessing. Stretching far enough against our nature may spring-load our launch into a spiritual journey, a seeking for connection or seeking for what more exists. On the journey of discovering who we are in the family of life, the capacity to listen and relate through our non-linear communication integrates with a physical world built from calculations and right angles. The human world view then stabilizes on a foundation of senses from which we can apply our intellect.
Every person on the planet is already wired to relate non-linearly with all of life. Horses offer the opportunity to become aware, in the gentlest of ways, of just how willing the natural world is to receive us and reconnect. They offer us the opportunity to become aware of how humanity is still included in the family of nature. Our part is to make ourselves available.~*~
PC: unknown
